


We’ll Always Have Paris

by Ayes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 90s Rom Com Basically, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Fluff, Modern Era, Paris (City), Polyglot Sandor, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Travel, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 35,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayes/pseuds/Ayes
Summary: All Sansa wants to do is forget about her ex-boyfriend. But when she books a solo trip to Paris, she finds that she’s sitting next to his old bodyguard, who’s also trying to move on. And from the plane to the hotel to the Eiffel Tower, they just can’t stop running into each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I asked you all to vote on the fic you wanted, and you guys really wanted Prompt #7! “All Sansa wants to do is forget about her ex-boyfriend. But when she books a solo trip to Paris, she finds that she’s sitting next to his old bodyguard, who’s also trying to move on. And from the plane to the hotel to the Eiffel Tower, they just can’t stop running into each other.” 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! I’m trying to keep this light and fluffy, like a modern Sansan romcom for my faves. This one is for everyone who wants fluffy, fashionable, romance.
> 
> I also have to thank those of you who came up with awesome titles on Tumblr that I turned around and didn’t use (because “We’ll always have Paris” is the most romantic line of all time to me, even if Rick and Ilsa don’t end up together in Casablanca, just let me live):
> 
> @thefeatherofhope: The French Connection, It Happened In Paris (Love the first one! I can hear the soundtrack now!)  
> @adult-orphan: Blame it On Paris, City Of Love, Escape To Paris (City of Love was my working title! Great minds.)  
> @3holmes: Déjà Vu (SO CLEVER but I am stuck in my Casablanca ways)  
> @gracespent: Looking for Louvre (can’t you just die?)  
> @pseudo-sorirostitute: La Vie En Rose (I mean, clearly pseudo-sorirostitute knows how to pick a name)
> 
> Stay tuned for the complete playlist! I'm currently making it, and you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2JsVYhXXpwqcFim40PNcFd?si=Zbqptws-TdSc-8pLqj6kkQ).

_"You can't escape the past in Paris, and yet what's so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn't seem to burden." — Allen Ginsberg_

✶✶✶✶✶✶✶✶

**BIKRAM YOGA CLASS CANCELED  
SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE  
NAMASTE **

The sign on the door had been hastily written and slapped up with some tape, and Sansa sighed when she saw it. It had been a long day, and she had been looking forward to sweating out her frustration. With the way things had been at work, with her family, and with her boyfriend, she’d never been more in need of a break to clear her mind.

Work was always frustrating, that was nothing new. She had just been promoted from associate to senior buyer, and the workload had grown a lot more than her salary. It wasn’t like Sansa needed the money, being a Stark and all, but it felt like proof that Haute Highgarden didn’t value her past how far they could push her. She was grateful for the position and grateful that her friend Margaery had even gotten her an interview at the luxury fashion site, but when she was being given double the responsibility with a much higher expectation of perfection, she couldn’t help but feel the pressure.

Her family wasn’t necessarily doing that badly either, but with five brothers and a sister in addition to her parents, there was always someone to worry about. Rickon was in trouble at school, Bran had been scheduled for another surgery, Ned’s blood pressure had been found too high, and Arya had recently started World War III by coming home with an armful of tattoos. At present Sansa was most worried about Theon, who claimed to be in love again, but no one had met his new boyfriend yet (and he had a history of choosing some real villains.)

And her own boyfriend was the final worry. Joffrey was tempestuous at the best of times, and only their long history as childhood sweethearts allowed Sansa to be forgiving of his ups and downs. It had once been fun, like the days back in high school when he would bribe their way into the casino so they could get all dressed up and spend a night losing his father’s money. But these days it was harder to keep Joffrey happy at any price, and he had graduated from occasionally snapping at waiters to constantly snapping at her. Lately she hadn’t felt like she could please him at all, and he certainly wasn’t fulfilling the role of the perfect boyfriend that she so wanted.

Sansa being Sansa, she was just doing her best to make him happy again. Their lives were so blessed, their needs well met. And they had each other. Surely if she could just help him improve his mood, everything would be good again. She had seen how her parents soothed each other over the years, when her dad‘s team was losing or when Catelyn had a particularly difficult conversation with her sister. But a little voice in Sansa’s head couldn’t help but remind her that they had never turned that negativity toward each other, and it had never been one person’s responsibility to make the other act more kindly toward them.

Well, if she couldn’t work out to calm her mind, she could drop in on Joffrey to tell him how she felt. When they had talked yesterday he had seemed frustrated with her again, and she didn’t like to think of leaving things that way for too long. At the least she could try to surprise him and hopefully improve his mood. She’d go cheer him up, and then maybe he’d listen to how it made her feel when he got annoyed with her. She didn’t even know what he had to be upset about, with his life so plush and padded, but surely bringing takeout from his favorite steakhouse would help him feel better.

Half an hour later Sansa was tripping up the stairs to Joffrey’s polished condo, takeout boxes in hand and still in her yoga pants.

The lights were all on inside, but the security guard that Joffrey’s mother insisted on was standing at the top of the stairs. Joffrey’s family did a lot of political maneuvering in the city, and Cersei was prone to paranoia where her children were concerned. Sansa didn’t blame her – no one could say Cersei didn’t love her children, and Joffrey certainly never minded having new people to boss around. Sandor Clegane was just one of Joffrey’s staff, with a maid and chauffeur and chef and personal assistant popping in and out each day.

Sansa and Clegane had never had much in the way of a real conversation, but she liked him well enough. He was brusque and huge and foreboding, but he always opened doors for her where Joffrey forgot, and he had once knocked on the door after one of Joffrey’s rages sent her into the closet crying. She’d opened it a crack to find a box of tissues and one enormous set of shoulders retreating down the hall.

She nodded to him now and held the stack of food boxes up. “Thought I’d stop by! I got enough fries to share, are you coming inside?”

Clegane shook his enormous head. “I’m not going in there and neither should you.”

“What?” For a moment, Sansa wasn’t sure she had heard him right, though her blood was slowly turning into ice. “What’s wrong? Is Joffrey okay?”

An expression crossed his face that surprised her. She always knew that Clegane hadn’t had much patience for Joffrey, but he was good at his job, and never said a word against him. Still, the revulsion that covered his face for a split second wasn’t half as startling as the pity that came right after. The two halves of Clegane’s face were wildly different anyhow, with one scarred and one serious, but the dual feelings they betrayed were clear at once.

Joffrey was doing something bad, and Clegane was doing his best not to let her see it.

She felt sick. “Let me in.”

“Miss Stark, I really wouldn’t-“ he put out a hand that was as wide as her waist, but she dodged it, slipping past him to the door.

Clegane sighed behind her, but he didn’t move to stop her. He caught the door when she opened it and slipped in behind her, continuing his sentry in the empty foyer.

Joffrey‘s condo was all white marble and expensive orchids that his mother sent in, contrasted by the scattering of things that were truly Joffrey: empty energy drink cans and half-drained vape batteries, Yeezys and car magazines and orphaned measuring scoops for the protein powders that never made him stronger.

Loud music thumped out from the bedroom that covered any sound that she could have heard, but something in the air told her exactly what was going on. Fighting the urge to throw up, she forced herself to take a deep breath and pass the piles of overpriced clothes on the way to Joffrey’s bedroom.

She didn’t open the door with any fanfare: just gave it a push and let it swing open on the scene inside. Joffrey was there, of course, and so was a girl that Sansa had never seen before. The girl was beautiful, not that it mattered, but her impossibly tanned body was a shock against Joffrey’s white sheets all the same.

Joffrey looked up, the girl looked up, and Sansa just stood in the doorway with an armload of steaks, feeling like an idiot.

“It’s not what it-” She cut off whatever stupid thing Joffrey was about to say by letting one of the takeout boxes fly. It hit his head, flipped onto the sheets, and oozed asparagus and bernaise sauce all over the girl’s side as she shrieked and rolled away. She got up and ran toward the bathroom — Sansa almost apologized to her for catching her in the crosshairs, but managed to bite back that particular instinctive politeness.

“ _It’s not what it looks like_ , Joffrey?” Sansa shook her head, not even sure what to say. Nothing felt real. The girl slammed the bathroom door shut behind her and Joffrey rose up furious.

He was half-dressed, and pulled his pants up as he came toward her, a smear of sauce on the side of his hair. “You bitch, you didn’t have to-”

“What did you call her?” Clegane was in the room then, appearing out of nowhere like a brutal-looking angel. Just feeling the mass of him behind her was enough to keep Sansa in place, as much as she wanted to step back from Joffrey’s awful anger.

“Get out, dog, this doesn’t concern you.” Joffrey was glowering up at Clegane like Sansa wasn’t even there. She considered throwing another box. “Mind your own business.”

“Safety in this household is my business.” Sansa spared a glance for Clegane, startled to see so much energy in his grey eyes, but he was glaring at Joffrey with a hatred that signified more hidden disdain for Joffrey than she had realized.

“Protecting my interests is your business,” Joffrey corrected, and something about the way he ignored Sansa to lecture his bodyguard made her eyes well up with tears. It was like he’d never cared about her suddenly, like he didn’t even care that Sansa was right in front of him hurting. “If you can’t remember that, I can find new staff.”

Clegane grumbled in his throat, a bearlike noise that Sansa thought might be a laugh, though it was hard to tell while trying to wipe her eyes on her own sleeve without dropping any food. “Lying to little birds isn’t a part of my job either.”

“I’m not a _bird_ ,” Sansa protested hotly, which was ignored by them both.

“Is that your resignation?” Joffrey pressed Clegane, not responding to Sansa, not looking at her. The noise of the shower being turned on came from the bathroom, followed by the kr- _hsssshh_ of water.

“It’s mine,” she said quietly, in case anyone was listening, and went around Clegane to the door.

“Get back here, Sansa,” Joffrey snapped, his voice cruel, and there was a shuffling that happened just as she brushed by Clegane’s mountainous bicep. Joffrey had lunged to grab her and pull her backward: Sandor put himself between them: Joffrey hit a wall of flesh that propelled him back. The room felt tighter and scary suddenly, and she spun to see Joffrey swing at Clegane, who caught his fist effortlessly and threw it back with enough power to make Joffrey stagger.

“Fuck both of you,” Joffrey swore, perhaps finally sensing that he couldn’t win. “You’re fired. And you’re dumped. Go be fucking useless together.”

“You can’t dump me, I just dumped you,” Sansa pointed out, even as she backed out of the door. “And I’m telling your mother.”

“Get out!” Joffrey shouted, and Clegane shrugged and turned to follow Sansa. She pressed her lips together and lead him out, both of them slipping away from the tantrum and out to the street, away from the slamming bedroom door and sounds of music that was still too loud.

Clegane shrugged a bag into his shoulder from the coat stand and Sansa snagged a MaxMara coat she had forgotten there earlier. There was an awkward moment where the door swung shut and they were left standing on the front stoop together; a cruel parallel of how they had encountered each other before.

“Are you okay?” Clegane asked after a moment, his gruff voice unfamiliar.

“I’m fine,” Sansa lied politely, wanting nothing more than to crawl into a bubble bath and die. “Thank you.”

“You can’t be fine,” he argued, and she shut her eyes to keep from screaming at her unlikely ally.

“I will be fine, please drop it,” she managed, in a fairly good approximation of her mother’s most gritted-teeth annoyance.

“Gods, _sorry_ ,” he sniped, tugging his bag over his shoulder. “I was just checking on you.”

“Yeah, I would have appreciated if you’d started by giving me a heads up,” she retorted, giving in to her awful feelings and the anger that was rising in place of shock.

“For sure, I definitely haven’t helped you at all today,” he said, and maybe she had been lucky not to hear Clegane talk much before, if he was this sarcastic. “See if the next guard tries to keep you from going in.”

“Maybe the next guy will keep the random girl from coming in instead.” Except she wouldn’t stick around to find out.

“Great, glad I could be of zero service,” he said, and stalked down the stairs. Sansa watched Clegane disappear down the street, guilt growing with every step he took. He’d just gotten fired for her, and she hadn’t even said thank you. Instead she’d snapped at him, and the worst part was that it was the most she’d shared her true feelings with someone in months. She thought about chasing after him, apologizing, offering him a steak.

But instead she swallowed her guilt and resolved never to have anything to do with the Baratheons or their people again.

What she did do was go home, cry, eat two steaks in bed, and start looking up flights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FASHION IN THIS CHAPTER (see my [Tumblr](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com) for imagery):
> 
> [Sansa's favorite yoga pants](https://shop.lululemon.com/p/women-pants/Align-Pant-Full-Length-28/_/prod8780551?CAWELAID=120278590000691719&CID=Google_Women_Shopping_US&color=37016&gclid=CjwKCAjwvJvpBRAtEiwAjLuRPcUPx8CKUN_-TXUokCJjCVw-yp1tKtY9SgUcXj7j3WUU7SiPBGjYMRoCfuYQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds&locale=en_US&skuId=106025013&sl=US): Lululemon Align Pant  
> [Joff's sneakers](https://sneakernews.com/2017/12/26/adidas-yeezy-boost-350-v2-sesame-release-info/): Adidas Yeezy Boost 350 v2  
> [Sansa's coat](https://us.maxmara.com/p-9011059106033-caban-camel): MaxMara Wool Peacoat


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa had called in sick for a day, to cry to her mother and binge classic movies and finish off the last of Joffrey’s mashed potatoes. It felt good to wallow for a while, but she grew restless by nighttime and spent the evening planning a trip that would take her mind off of things. She had never gone on a trip by herself before, unless you counted flying home to see her family, but it felt like time to spend some quality time with herself. She had been with Joffrey for so long that she didn’t know what to do with all of the mental energy that she had spent worrying and crying over him for years. It was an exciting feeling, but kind of a scary one, and she channeled her butterflies into her itineraries and Google Street maps.

She woke up early the next day to dress for work, pulling her hair up into a high and tight ponytail like it was armor for a battle. Dressing for her workplace was always a competition, and Sansa was no slacker. She tugged her Stuart Weitzman boots up over her knees, leaving a strip of thigh showing between the grey suede and her fitted, ribbed sweater dress. The dress was white, so she almost reached for a black bag, but thought better of it and loaded up her grey Celine bag with her wallet and sunglasses. Fashion was the one thing that she could always control, and her work allowed for some steep discounts. Picking just one or two bags to bring would be a challenge, and she’d almost certainly need a second suitcase for coats and shoes.

Her friend Margaery was in for once when Sansa arrived at work, one of the rare days that she popped in to humor her grandmother by pretending to be working, and she perched at the edge of Sansa’s desk as soon as she sat down.

“What are you up to today, girl?” she asked, popping her gum and waggling her feet at Sansa so she would take in the shoes. Sansa sighed internally but offered the compliment that she knew Margaery was waiting for.

“Cute, are those Dior?” She knew damn well they were — everyone at the office had seen Margaery swoop in on the sample sizes and claim the star-studded navy heels for herself. They did pair flawlessly with her Réalisation Par zodiac slip dress. Margaery had a definite style: lots of blue, lots of skin, and the combination served her well.

“Hmm, maybe,” Margaery cooed, lying her little ass off. Sansa couldn’t help but be won over, smiling back at her friend despite her mood. It was fun to have incorrigible girlfriends: she’d need them now. “You too busy for lunch?”

“It’s 9:30,” Sansa responded, but opened her calendar anyway. “I have a sales meeting at 10 but I can go right after?”

“Perfect, I’m working on the bartender at the bistro down the street. So far just free drinks, but I’m sure he’ll work up some apps if I bring my cutest friend.” Margaery winked, and Sansa smiled wider. For such a rich girl, Margaery sure put the most value on what she got for free from cute guys.

“Grab me after the meeting, then,” she promised. “Unless you’re supposed to be in it too?”

“Pffft,” Margaery answered, looking around for any sign of her grandmother. “I think I’ll hit the coffee shop until you’re ready, the guys there know how to treat a lady.”

“Enjoy the free caffeine,” Sansa laughed. Margaery hopped down and crept toward the door in an overexaggerated tiptoe designed to keep Sansa laughing. She caught a glimpse of Margaery’s purse on the way out, too: of course it was perfectly-matching Prada.

Sansa took diligent notes in the meeting, careful to stay on top of upcoming partnerships so that she knew what to hand off when she requested her vacation time. She submitted her PTO request before the meeting was over just in case, blocking off the upcoming week while she could still fit it between vendor meetings and trade shows. 

When the meeting ended a few girls lingered to chat, but Sansa slipped out quickly, afraid they’d ask her how Joffrey was doing or inquire about her disaster of a weekend. She slipped her phone out of her purse quickly, texting Margaery, and tracked her down to the bistro two blocks away.

It was small and ivy-covered, wire patio chairs shaded underneath white-and-yellow umbrellas in a French style. Margaery was already installed at one of the best tables, a glass of white wine at her elbow and an enormous plate of fries in front of her.

“Did you order those?” Sansa asked, pleased but surprised, as she took the other seat. A pair of suited waiters peeked out from inside the restaurant, and Margaery smirked,.

“Of course not. Dig in.” Sansa sighed happily and did. She’d have to stop self-medicating with food if she was going to survive this breakup in fighting shape, but she wasn’t going to beat herself up over free fries, either. “Have you been here before?”

“No, this is precious.” One of the waiters popped up, and the girls ordered an enormous salad to share and some waters, along with another chilly Cabernet Sauvignon for Sansa. “Very Parisian.”

“Well, it’s trying,” Margaery shrugged, always unimpressed. “Nothing like Le Bon Georges, but we’re pretty far away from the real thing.”

“I’ve never been,” Sansa said, and wiped her hands on her napkin, preparing to confess. “But I’m taking next week off and I need somewhere to go.”

“Yes!” Margaery waggled her wine with such enthusiasm that some nearly spilled. “Oh my god, you’re totally going to get engaged!”

“What?” Sansa was taken aback, but covered with a sip of her own wine. “What do you mean?”

“Last-minute getaway with Joffrey? A romantic interlude to the City of Love that just can’t wait? Girl, you’re definitely coming back with a ring. Oh, lord, do you think Cersei will pick it out? Or can you just take him to Tiffany? I have a jeweler who can make anything they sell for half the price, you can spend the difference to get a bigger diamond. Ask him the budget! Oh my god, and bridesmaid dresses! Can I wear something in radiant orchid? It’s the color of the year and I’m _obsessed_.”

“Ah.” Sansa rolled the wine around in her glass, wondering how to shut down the Margaery train of excitement before it got even further out of the station. “Well, no. I was kind of thinking Paris, but not if it’s too romantic. I’m actually swearing off men for a while… we broke up.”

“Oh, no.” Margaery, to her credit, put her wine down and reached for Sansa’s free hand. She took it in both of hers, her perfectly-manicured fingers squeezing tight. “Sansa, I’m so sorry. This weekend? What happened?”

“Um, he…” Sansa was a little embarrassed to find that her eyes were tearing up already. “Well, I caught him cheating. So.”

“We’ll kill him,” Margaery declared. A waiter approached to check on them, and she waved him off, thought better of it, called “More wine!” at his retreating back. “Seriously, Sansa, we can hire an assassin or something, I know he has security, but—”

“He doesn’t, actually,” Sansa sniffed, guilt returning as she remembered Clegane. “His security guy tipped me off and got fired for it.”

“See? Some good men do exist,” Margaery declared. She bunched up the napkin in her lap and reached out to dry Sansa’s eyes. “Lean forward, girl. Okay, so you need to go anyway.”

“To Paris?” Sansa held still as Margaery dabbed at her tears, ensuring that her mascara stayed perfectly in place.

“It’s the perfect place for a rebound. And shopping, but there are also more French men than you’ll know what to do with.”

“Well, I’m not planning on it.” Sansa managed to laugh a little. “But it would be nice to go somewhere that I don’t know anyone for a while. Can’t run into him, can’t see the places we used to go. I need a breather, you know?”

“You deserve it,” Margaery said firmly, and reached for the bejeweled pen in her purse. She opened the cloth napkin on the table and began a list with the confidence of someone who can pay for a napkin, or if necessary, an entire restaurant. “Now, here’s where you’re going to shop and here’s what we should pack. How do you feel about berets?”

Sansa sat back and took a fry from the pile. Somehow she was already feeling a little bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s Outfit:  
> Dress: [Lovers + Friends Unstoppable Dress](https://www.revolve.com/r/DisplayProduct.jsp?aliasURL=lovers-friends-unstoppable-dress-in-marshmallow%2Fdp%2FLOVF-WD969&d=F&countrycode=US&_cclid=Google_CjwKCAjwmZbpBRAGEiwADrmVXm6U-MvAdzNZ8hC-TaAWyXVWdg1EgmQf-8hsq_Z-kIWl2Qh7TxnXUBoCrV0QAvD_BwE&gclid=CjwKCAjwmZbpBRAGEiwADrmVXm6U-MvAdzNZ8hC-TaAWyXVWdg1EgmQf-8hsq_Z-kIWl2Qh7TxnXUBoCrV0QAvD_BwE&product=LOVF-WD969)  
> Boots: [Stuart Weitzman Tieland Boots](https://www.stuartweitzman.com/products/tieland/?DepartmentId=731&DepartmentGroupId=78&ColMatID=27759&F_Color=GRAY)  
> Purse: [Celine Micro Luggage Handbag](https://www.celine.com/en-us/celine-shop-women/handbags/luggage/micro-luggage-handbag-in-baby-drummed-calfskin-189793AQL.10KL.html)
> 
> Margaery’s Outfit:  
> Dress: [ Réalisation Par 1996 Dress](https://realisationpar.com/the-1996-zodiac/)  
> Heels: [Dior Satin Star Galaxy Gladiator Cage Pump](https://www.1stdibs.com/fashion/accessories/shoes/christian-dior-new-navy-satin-crystal-star-detail-evening-sandals-heels-box/id-v_5372671/)  
> Purse: [Prada Cahier Crossbody](https://leprix.com/shop/prada/crossbody/prada-cahier-crossbody-bag-embellished-leather-small)
> 
> [Photos on my Tumblr!](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/186311260216/wahp-fashion-chapter-2-sansas-outfit-dress)


	3. Chapter 3

The day of Sansa’s flight she awoke bright and early before her alarm. She was nervous and excited all at once, and just barely resisted going through her suitcase for the hundredth time as she threw last minute things like her phone charger and morning sunscreen into her carry-on. 

She’d had almost a week to prepare, and she still felt far from ready, but maybe that was a part of the adventure. She had gone to her dad, a frequent business traveler, for a list, and had stocked up on international converters, Euros, and comfortable walking shoes. Okay, maybe her Vejas were cute as much as they were comfortable, but she had taken care to pack the rest of her favorite flats alongside her boots and heels: beat-up Chanel espadrilles, flat suede Aquazzura slingbacks, and classic scalloped Chloe flats.

She didn’t think of herself as high maintenance – no, she just liked fashion, and all of the different personalities that she got to try on each day. But trying to make her overloaded rose gold luggage stand up was definitely a challenge. She’d made sure to carry her largest purse - the Neverfull - onto the plane, but tucked away was her YSL Kate, and she planned on taking advantage of the duty free shops at Charles de Gaulle.

Really, figuring out what to bring had only been a distraction for the real anxiety: traveling solo. She didn’t speak French, and it was it something she had never done before, a solo adventure. Usually she had Joffrey with her, or one of her many siblings, or one of her friends. She thought she would appease some of her anxiety by arriving at the airport early, and she called the Uber a full four hours before her flight took off.

Sansa wanted to dress comfortably for the plane, but she was never going to wear sweatpants in public, so she had slipped on her comfiest maxi dress, her snugglist sweater, and some velvet flats that may as well have been slippers. The airport was busy already in the international terminal, business travelers and tourists filling lines in front of every counter. She found the Air France counter easily enough, and tried not to worry about how difficult it might be to find her way home in a foreign airport. She just showed her ID, checked her bag, and took her boarding pass with a sense of pride. It said Sansa Stark on it, and it also said Paris, and she was going to save it for the rest of her life.

Sansa decided to get head through security first so she wouldn’t worry about time, and since she had TSA pre-check, that meant skipping the enormous security line in favor of a much quicker one. She had gotten it years ago with her whole family, and loved it for the fact that she never had to take off her shoes in public. It always felt a little bit like being a celebrity when she got to zip past the lines across from the rope dividers, and this time was no exception. She didn’t want to appear immodest, though, so she avoided looking at the crowd she passed directly. She only caught a glimpse of the travelers waiting to pass through security, and it wasn’t until she was putting her bag down on the table that she glanced over properly. Sansa’s retreating anxiety doubled back with a vengeance when she spotted the head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd.

It was Clegane, it had to be, sandwiched between a traveling family and a gaggle of what looked like a bachelorette party. The bachelorette party was elbowing each other and giggling at his broad back, but Clegane hadn’t seemed to notice. He hadn’t seemed to notice her, either, and she turned her head quickly so he wouldn’t. Her first thought was bad: what if Joffrey had hired him back to spy on her? She had blocked Joffrey’s number, and so had no idea if he was texting her or not, and she wouldn’t put it past him to do something juvenile. Maybe he wanted to stop her trip, or ruin it in someway, but even if Clegane was going somewhere else she still wanted nothing to do with him. Even if she owed him an apology, talking to him would only distract her now, making her feel worse and remind her of the break up instead of letting her focus on something better: like her upcoming trip. It was just hours away, and she wasn’t going to spend the long flight thinking about Joffrey anymore.

Luckily she was able to duck through security fast, and she gathered her bags as quickly as she could to slip away. She found her gate, checked that her flight was on time, and went to get a quick breakfast the ever-present Starbucks. She studied the pastry case, weighing the pros and cons of each sweet treat. Should she get something with protein? Something decadent? She wasn’t sure yet if she wanted to sleep or read on the plane, but she’d gotten up so early that she didn’t see the harm in a cup of coffee either way. 

Sansa had just settled on a chocolate croissant when she sensed someone standing close behind her. She knew it was Clegane without turning around, and in fact he was so tall that all she had to do was tip her head back to look up at him, her cinnamon hair cascading backward over her shoulders and across her back.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Clegane rumbled, his tone of voice impossible to read.

“A surprise, is it?” She asked, trying to sound polite, even if her mind was hammering.

“You think I’m following you?” Clegane snorted. “I’m off the clock. No more following people around like your boy Joffrey.”

“He’s not my boy,” she insisted, and his eyebrows raised slightly.

“No? Color me impressed. I thought you would be back in that condo by now. What, do you have your own money?”

“Wow,” Sansa replied, all thought of apologizing to him gone now. “First of all, yes. Second of all I was never with Joffrey for his money. We were kids together, you didn’t know that?”

“We didn’t really talk,” Clegane granted. “So that was it huh, childhood affection? Couldn’t be his dazzling wit or kind heart.”

Clegane had never spoken so freely to her. Sansa laughed, and he looked surprised. “No, I guess you’re right,” she offered, experimenting with the weird new lack of boundaries between them. “I feel stupid now that I stayed with him for so long, who knows how long he had been cheating on me. What’s weird is that I’m not even mad about that part, I’m just mad that it took something so drastic for me to leave.”

“Fair enough,” he said grudgingly, as the line moved up. “So where are you off to now?”

“Paris,” she replied, excitement growing in her heart again as she said the name of the city. Paris. it was so close that she could taste it. The person in front of her finished ordering, and she moved up, ignoring Clegane for a moment. “Chocolate croissant and a grande drip,” she told the barista.

“Oh yeah? Paris, huh.” Clegane sounded amused. “You’re never going to be able to have a Starbucks coffee and croissant after Paris.”

“Oh, you’ve been?”

“Only for work. Traveling with clients and all that. But I liked it, wanted to go back. And thanks to _someone_ I have the time.”

Sansa caught the jab, but she was preoccupied by her heart sinking. What if he was on her flight? Sure, knowing one person in a major city shouldn’t ruin Paris for her, but the world suddenly seemed smaller than she would have liked.

“Well, you won’t have to see me and be reminded, I’m sure,” she said finally, shifting to the side so he could order his own coffee. Hers was handed over, along with the brown bag containing her warmed croissant. “Big place, lots of people. I won’t stand out.”

“You’ve clearly never seen yourself,” he answered. Sansa hesitated, unsure if that was a compliment or not. “Thanks,” she said anyway, adding a “see you later,” and she turned to flee the most awkward interaction of her life, if you didn’t count the last time she had seen Clegane and her whole life had gone sideways.

But there was time to forget that now. Now was the time to drink some coffee, hit the bookstore, and start a new adventure... without Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s shoe collection:  
> [Veja sneakers](https://www.veja-store.com/en/v-10/1492-v-10-extra-white.html)  
> [Chanel espadrilles](https://www.chanel.com/us/fashion/p/G29762X01000C0204/espadrilles-lambskin/)  
> [Aquazzura slingbacks](https://shop.nordstrom.com/s/aquazzura-deneuve-bow-pointy-toe-flat-women/4948622?origin=keywordsearch-personalizedsort&breadcrumb=Home%2FAll%20Results&color=lipstick%20red)
> 
> Sansa’s bag collection:  
> Suitcase: [Rimowa suitcase](https://www.buyma.us/items/49474dea-846c-4498-a3a7-1d5180f9da96/?set_currency=USD&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=US_USC_EN&cp=153&gclid=CjwKCAjw36DpBRAYEiwAmVVDMP6HjJcB3IUXBjIowqcSkNkXtooR0gk4kiRLjmbiBg_l3F4hf4HgxhoCzEYQAvD_BwE)  
> [Louis Vuitton Neverfull](https://us.louisvuitton.com/eng-us/products/neverfull-mm-damier-azur-008109)  
> [Yves Saint Laurent Kate](https://www.neimanmarcus.com/p/saint-laurent-kate-monogram-ysl-small-tassel-shoulder-bag-with-golden-hardware-prod205140066)
> 
> Sansa’s airport outfit:  
> [Indah maxi dress](https://www.revolve.com/indah-amici-smocked-maxi-dress/dp/INDA-WD656/?d=Womens&page=1&lc=94&itrownum=32&itcurrpage=1&itview=01)  
> [Rouje cardigan](https://www.rouje.com/e-shop/maille/cardigan-lucas-ecru.html)  
> [Birdies slippers](https://birdiesslippers.com/products/the-starling-in-latte)
> 
> [See photos on my Tumblr here!](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/186378900351/wahp-fashion-chapter-3-sansas-shoe-collection)


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa got so caught up in the bookstore that she almost missed her flight. She’d browsed the magazines, the pulpy novels, and the classics, picturing herself reading each one by the Seine with a glass of wine and forever associating its story with her trip. In the end, she’d picked up a blank journal and a set of pencils, determined instead to start her own record. She’d always wanted to be a fashion illustrator, inspired by the designers she loved, and her buying career sometimes still felt like the stepping stone to that. She didn’t do much drawing, these days, but she was sure she’d find new brands to keep track of and new styles to explore within the pages of her new leatherbound companion.

She spent so long fantasizing that the speaker system had time to call for _Miss Stark, Sansa Stark_ to the gate, and then she had to run for it despite her hours-early arrival. She chucked her empty coffee cup and balled-up receipt into a trash can as she passed, then skidded up to the gate, flapping her boarding pass at the reproachful-looking attendant as she passed.

She was out of breath by the time she made it down the runway and onto the plane, and had to pause for breath with all of first class glaring at her. She kept her head down and checked her ticket — 12A, 12A, 12A…

It couldn’t be.

12A was the last empty space, a window seat, surrounded by an otherwise full flight. On the aisle, a businessman was already asleep with his briefcase in his lap. In the middle…

“You again,” Clegane said. 

“Me again,” Sansa agreed unhappily. “Do you want me to switch seats with someone else?”

“Who? Him?” Sandor nudged the sleeping man beside him, digging his elbow in hard. “He’s been passed out since I got here. I had to climb over.”

“Great,” Sansa sighed, and eyed the cramped row. “Okay, hold my bag, I’m coming in.”

She shoved her purse at Sandor, who only seemed to grab it out of surprise, and started hiking her skirt up. “What are you doing? And what’s in this thing, cannonballs?”

“Very funny, I- oh, hang on.” She flattened herself against the sleeping man's knees and squirmed past, unbalancing a little so Clegane had to let go of her purse and reach up to steady her, his hand going to her hip just as hers fell to his knee. “Oops, sorry-“

“Sorry,” he muttered at the same time, and yanked his hand away as soon as she rebalanced, leaving a strange buzzing sensation where his hand had been and a warm memory of his leg in her palm.

Sansa buckled up quickly and cleared her throat, trying to clear the blush that she could feel off her cheeks. She briefly considered putting her sunglasses on, but the flight was too long to simply hide the whole time. 

“Are you sure you’re not following me?” she asked grumpily, as the flight attendant started to lecture them about seatbelt safety.

“Maybe you’re following me,” he retorted. “Unless there’s some rich French _le douchebag_ waiting for you at Charles de Gaulle.”

“Okay, I’m not the one following rich dudes around,” Sansa pointed out. She was already out of patience, and the plane hadn’t even finished taxiing down the runway. “Or do you stand around professionally for the love of it?”

“Stand around… at least I don’t work in the noble industry of filling up closets.”

“You should be so lucky.” Sansa stroked her bag, in case it heard what the mean man said. “Are you always this rude when you’re off the clock?”

“You started it,” he said sullenly, and she couldn’t help it — she laughed. It was just too ridiculous. Clegane looked surprised, but then he chuckled too, a low and warm sound that she actually quite liked.

“I guess I did.” The flight attendants sat down, the engines roared, and their plane pushed up into the sky. 

Sansa quickly was preoccupied with the window for a moment: everything was so beautiful dropping away below, so familiar and yet already so far away. The people turned into ant-sized specks, and then the cars, and then even the buildings, boxed in by the miniaturized expanses of parking lots and reservoirs and the occasional preserved godswood.

After the plane hit a cruising altitude, the flight attendants began to move through the cabin with a drink cart. Clegane, who had retreated behind a newspaper, ordered a black coffee. Sansa’s last coffee was wearing off after her adrenaline-fueled run to the gates, but she asked for a mimosa. Margaery had pre-insisted that she have a drink on the flight, to help her sleep as well as celebrate. But Clegane quirked his eyebrows, and Sansa raised hers back, prepared for another fight.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, and ruffled the newspaper. He cleared his throat, and Sansa sighed. She tugged the newspaper down, revealing the unburnt side of his face.

“ _What_?”

Clegane signed and set the newspaper down. “You’re just not the little bird I remember. Swearing, debating me, ordering a drink before noon.”

She fought a blush, but found that she didn’t mind the description. “And what of it?” 

He shrugged. “Nothing, I was just surprised. I kind of like it.”

Sansa leaned over him to accept her drink from the flight attendant and raised the glass to Clegane. “Me too.” He tapped his coffee cup against it gently, tipped it toward her, and went back to his newspaper.

Sansa spent an hour or so flipping through the options on the small screen in front of her, marveling at how many reruns could be played on how many channels. At one point she looked up to see that Clegane was still deep in his newspaper. He’d made it through the news section and looked well into the business section, the numbers and acronyms incomprehensible from her glance. She took advantage of his distraction to take him in, look at the man who she had known for years but never spent much time getting to truly know. He was more handsome than she had realized, especially now that she was looking undistracted at the part of his face that wasn’t marred by those intimidating burns. He had a fine Roman nose, a soft-looking bottom lip, and almost invisible freckles underneath his eyes that were the grey of slate but still somehow looked warm. The hair he wore pulled back had unfurled a few wisps that reached to his collar. He had laugh lines around his eyes too, ones she’d never been close enough to see, indicating the decade between them. And he was better dressed than she’d ever noticed before, though in a subtle way that still felt masculine. She’d never put it past him — but then, she clearly hadn’t noticed him much at all.

Sansa considered apologizing to him then, but didn’t want to interrupt the older man, handsome or not, and so she went back to her screen. It wasn’t long before she got lost in reruns of _Sex and the City_ and in her sparkling mimosa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fashion photos from this chapter are on my blog [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/186542027696/well-always-have-paris-chapter-4-fashion-sansas)!
> 
> Or check out:  
> Sansa’s journal: [The Fashion Sketchpad ](https://www.amazon.com/Fashion-Sketchpad-Templates-Designing-Portfolio/dp/0811877884)  
> Sandor’s flannel: [Grey Pendleton ](https://www.pendleton-usa.com/product/mens-big-board-shirt-51932.html?dwvar_51932_color=9216&cgid=men#prefn1=refinementColor&prefv1=Grey&start=13&cgid=men)  
> Sandor’s pants: [Slim black Vince pants ](https://www.vince.com/exclusive-%2F-dm-02-the-slim-DM3592503.html?dwvar_DM3592503_color=BLKWAS#start=4)  
> Sandor’s shoes: [Black Timberland boots ](https://www.saksfifthavenue.com/timberland-seam-sealed-ankle-boots/product/0400099439148?FOLDER%3C%3Efolder_id=2534374306420996&R=888732232438&P_name=Timberland&N=306420996&bmUID=mL.Me7j)


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa woke up with the disorienting taste of stale oranges in her mouth and the aching sense that her neck had been sitting at a weird angle for hours.

All she could see at first was a blanket of her own hair, and she brushed it aside. The seat in front of her was sideways, and it took her a moment to realize that it was because she had her head tilted. That she had fallen asleep and found herself a pillow in Clegane’s oversized shoulder.

“Oops,” she said quickly, sitting up fast even though it made her neck twinge. “I’m so sorry, was I asleep long?”

“Just a few hours,” Clegane answered, sounding unconcerned for someone she’d almost certainly just drooled on. She rubbed her neck and made a face at him, trying to convey her embarrassment, but he just stretched and flapped the airline magazine at her. “What’s a nine-letter word for genuine?”

“Authentic.” Sansa gave up on making her neck feel better and craned it toward the crossword puzzle on his tray table. “But I think you have that word wrong, wouldn’t it be value and not worth?”

“Same thing,” he protested, and Sansa tilted the magazine toward her. He sighed. “No, go ahead.”

“Pen,” she said, ignoring him, and he handed it over.

They did the crossword puzzle in relative peace as the dark sky lightened through the windows. Clegane knew a lot of words, but he needed help with the modern cultural references, and she had some fun teasing him about his outdated knowledge of celebrities — at least until he knew the name of an old Western and got to snatch the pen triumphantly out of her hand.

Sansa had slept through the meal service, and she was starving by the time the flight attendants were passing around cheese plates and cookies, along with another round of tea and coffee. She had eaten through all of her snacks and was starting to eye Clegane’s biscotti when he closed the in-flight magazine and gestured past her to the window.

“What?” She turned, half-expecting him to be faking her out in order to have his crossword to himself, but the sunrise had begun to reveal a view that stole her attention immediately.

It was Paris, opening up between them like a dream, avenues neatly ushering clusters of buildings into their open, airy lanes. The light was like something magical, a blush pink that was beautiful against the cream of the buildings from this high up. And there, across miles of rooftops, was a tiny little spike of metal that could only be the Eiffel Tower.

Sansa pressed her forehead against the window and pulled her sweater tight around her. She’d made it — Paris. It was already so beautiful, and if she was a little sad that Joffrey couldn’t be there with her, it was only because she missed the boyfriend that she had thought she’d had. She was going to have a wonderful time, all by herself.

Clegane leaned over to see the view, and for a moment she almost thought that he was about to put his chin on her shoulder. He was so close that she could smell the coffee he’d been drinking.

He was a mystery, Clegane. He’d gone from someone that she had never thought about, to someone she kept bumping into, to someone she had passed a few pleasant hours with, to her surprise (and probably his as well).

She actually liked him, a little bit, although he had more of a mouth than she expected. He proved it after they landed at the airport, standing with a stretch in the narrow aisle and turning to her with her a “Well, enjoy the rich French dudes.”

“I’m not here to find dudes, I’m here to find myself,” Sansa snapped, exasperated when he laughed at her.

“Let me know what she’s like when you find her,” he said, and tugged his bag up on his shoulder before disappearing.

Sansa took it back, he was the worst. He teased her like one of her brothers would, and she hadn’t come to Paris to be teased or to hang out with her ex-boyfriend’s ex-bodyguard. She hadn’t come for French guys either, whatever Margaery said. She had come to Paris to be Sansa, to eat and explore and get inspired.

At least she wouldn’t see Clegane again — immediately disproven by a glimpse of him at the taxi stand, but she managed to hop into a cab quickly before shutting the door. _Now_ she wouldn’t see him again. 

Hopefully.

The drive through the streets to her hotel was more than Sansa could ever have imagined. From her view out the back window, she felt like a tourist in the middle of a daydream. The radio in the cab was playing staticky old Bob Dylan between fast-talking French ads while her cab driver was speaking to someone on his cell, but everything else looked like a silent movie as it passed by her window. Trees lined streets that were busy with bicyclists, pedestrians with dogs, and people on scooters weaving between cars. Every detail was opulent, from the limestone buildings studded with terraces to the restaurants that spilled smokers and waitresses in aprons onto the street. It was exactly as she had imagined, only moreso, bigger and more real than she could have ever anticipated. People shouted and busboys took their breaks in alleyways and children ran through a park with ancient statues and it was beautiful, utterly alive and absolutely perfect.

The hotel that Sansa was staying at had been built in 1862 and it looked it, though that was hardly the oldest that Parisian buildings could be. It sat across from the Opera Garnier atop an enormous, bustling café, and stepping out of the cab and into its foyer was like going backwards in time. She was exhausted from the flight, but not too tired to appreciate the room that they brought her up into. The view beyond her comfy bed was enough to make her want to wake up and explore.

Sansa changed quickly, pulling on her comfiest pair of jeans and a cute, ruffly white top, along with her favorite white sneakers. She unfolded her camel coat from the top of her suitcase, where it had been stuffed on top of everything to cushion her clothes and shoes from the wear and tear of travel. She hadn’t worn makeup on the flight, so she quickly threw on some powder, mascara, and lipstick and grabbed her smallest purse, stuffing it with her wallet, key card, phone, and new journal. On the way out the door she stopped to get a business card from the front desk, in case she got lost and needed to give the address to a cab driver.

And then she stepped out to the streets and was swept away.

Walking the streets was better than driving through them, like a dream that was perfect all the more for its imperfections: the smell of stale cigarettes, the French graffiti,the hustle and bustle of real people, exhausted from work and headed home or into brasseries.

She meant to just go to a café, find a place to sit and pretend to be Parisian, but each new block promised untold treasures, and she walked until it was almost dark, making mental notes of where the museums where and which stores looked worth revisiting. On a whim, she entered a grocery store, the aisles packed with snacks both strange and familiar. She picked up some chocolates for her mother and fumbled through the payment, but the cashier just smiled and helped her - in English - to count out her coins.

At last Sansa realized she’d have to turn back at some point, and she retraced her steps to a little restaurant she had passed. It had just lit its exterior lights, and she took a small table outside to herself, tugging her coat on before getting comfortable.

She ordered bouillabaisse, in part as an excuse to load up on bread, the baguette she was served somehow fluffy and light inside while providing the perfect crunch for dipping. Paired with a glass of wine, it was the perfect meal, and she was almost too full for a lemon tart. Almost.

Sansa texted everyone to let them know she had arrived safely, and sent a few photos from her walk. Her dad sent back a series of emojis, making her laugh, and Arya just thumbs-upped her initial message of having arrived. Her family group chat always had something going on, big as her family was, and she scrolled through what she’d missed before putting her phone away: Jon’s wolf-dog at the park, Robb’s and his wife’s fantasy team, Catelyn’s latest knitting project, draped around a reluctant Rickon.

She pulled out her new journal and tried to draw something, record her outfit or capture the easy style of the women passing by. But for some reason she kept thinking about Clegane. 

It wasn’t her fault, not really. He had dominated the start of her trip so far, and surely it wasn’t strange to still be a little thrown by it. She’d just have to continue her trip and crowd out that odd start with newer Parisian memories. And if it was a little weird that she was dwelling on a run-in with Clegane more than a break-up with Joffrey, well, she’d just have to figure it out along the way.

By the time she got back to the hotel, Sansa was exhausted, but she thought she’d grab a nightcap at the hotel bar and give sketching one more go. The hotel was just as beautiful lit up as it was during the day, perhaps more magical for the way it twinkled in between other glowing street signs. The Café de la Paix was in the heart of the hotel, stuffed with marble columns, mahogany buffets, gilded mirrors, and beautiful people. It was fairly busy, even late at night, and Sansa was shown to a two-person table with a white tablecloth in the corner, tucked away behind one of the elegant columns.

Once sitting down again, she could feel how tired she was, but she couldn’t help being happy despite the jet lag. In the morning she could wake up fresh and really do Paris right. But right now, she’d have some tea and head to bed and forget all about…

“For fuck’s sake,” Sansa hissed under her breath, as a waiter passed, drawing her eye up to the man at the table across the room from her. Facing her, also sitting solo, was Clegane. He was drinking something golden from a tall glass, and when he caught her staring, he raised it in a sardonic toast, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth that she could see even behind the beard.

This time, she just ignored him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s hotel: [InterContinental Paris Le Grand Hotel](https://parislegrand.intercontinental.com/en/)  
> Sansa’s jeans: [Levi’s 501 skinny jeans](https://www.revolve.com/levis-501-skinny/dp/LEIV-WJ66/?d=Womens&page=1&lc=4&itrownum=2&itcurrpage=1&itview=01&plpSrc=%2Fr%2FBrands.jsp%3F%26aliasURL%3Ddenim%252Fbr%252F2664ce%26s%3Dc%26c%3DDenim%26sortBy%3Dpopularity%26sortBy%3Dpopularity)  
> Sansa’s top: [I.AM.GIA. Naomi top](https://iamgia.com/products/naomi-top-white)  
> Sansa’s sneakers: [White Vejas](https://www.veja-store.com/en/v-10/1492-v-10-extra-white.html)  
> Sansa’s coat: [MaxMara](https://us.maxmara.com/p-9011059106033-caban-camel)  
> Sansa’s smallest purse: [Gucci soho disco](https://www.gucci.com/us/en/pr/women/womens-handbags/womens-shoulder-bags/soho-small-leather-disco-bag-p-308364A7M0G2754)  
> Sansa’s wallet: [Chanel boy wallet](https://www.yoogiscloset.com/accessories/chanel-beige-quilted-caviar-leather-boy-flap-card-holder.html)
> 
> Or see it all on my Tumblr [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/186632950226/sansas-hotel-intercontinental-paris-le-grand)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short Sansa chapter before the banter recontinues!

Sansa woke up in the morning with two things on her mind: steering clear of Clegane, and drinking some real French coffee.

Even though Clegane was somehow staying at the same hotel, she was determined to pretend he didn’t exist. He was rude, if slightly handsome, and far too direct for her taste. It boiled her blood to think of him toasting her, as if he thought being on a near-identical trip was funny. 

Well, today wasn’t about him, anyway. Today was all about Sansa.

She began with a long shower, exfoliating and shaving and moisturizing until she was a warm confection of smooth lavender sugar. Next she had to decide what to wear, and since she couldn’t choose between black and edgy or white and dreamy, she split the difference by pairing her favorite black leather accessories — her YSL bag, her Acne jacket, and her suede slingbacks — with the girliest white dress she owned. She never quite felt like herself when she wore all-black, but she wanted to feel ready to hit the streets, and combining the two styles worked seamlessly. Once she put on her favorite necklace and curled her hair, Sansa felt confident that she could stand up to the best-dressed Parisian woman out there.

Or at least next to her.

She left the hotel quickly so she wouldn’t get caught somewhere near Clegane again, and made a right and a left and another right, getting beautifully lost between tourists and locals alike. She found a small café covered in black-and-white photos of old actors and actresses and tucked herself into a booth, ordering the coffee and pain au chocolat that she’d heard so much about.

It was heavenly, to say the least. Buttered flakes broke off like delicious flecks of air, and the chocolate was richer and more chocolatey than whatever she’d been eating at Starbucks for all those years. The coffee, too, was a revelation: she drank two cups of the strong, rich brew, marveling in the way it was so deep without a hint of bitterness. She had to re-apply her lipstick in the tiny wallpapered bathroom afterward, but the meal was well worth it.

She took another cab ride to the Galeries Lafayette, a mall that was as magical as any Disney theme park. The interior spun in circles around a spiral stairway of escalators, each floor holding something new and sparkling and beautiful.

No matter what country she was in, Sansa was no stranger to shopping. All of her luxury favorites were there, from Chanel to Cartier to Comme des Garçons. This being a Paris trip, she made sure to check out local brands, and wound up with what felt like a very French tourist-y outfit: new heels from Ganni, a simple A.P.C. dress, and even a white blazer by Maje that was exciting for being a little out of her comfort zone.

She still wanted to make a special luxury purchase, but nothing was really speaking to her that day, and her credit card was mad enough. She’d had an extra-good month of commission before the Joffrey fiasco, and had already resigned herself to spending every little bit of it in Paris — and probably more than that. 

She’d timed her visit to the Galeries Lafayette around a small fashion show that her boss had told her about, and when the time came Sansa took the escalators all the way up to the Salon Opéra, where a well-dressed man was waiting with a clipboard. Her name was on the list, and she took a seat in a large room packed with people seated in careful lines, just in time for the music to shift and a line of models to emerge. One by one, they followed a trail that wound between the chairs in the room on long legs. One of the male models winked at her, and Sansa, startled, crossed her legs and tried not to blush. She spent the rest of the show studying the clothes and trying not to make eye contact with any of the models, even if Margaery would have a heart attack if she knew Sansa wasn’t doing her best to wink back.

The show wrapped up after thirty minutes, in which time she saw some upcoming clothing, some of which reinvigorated her will to shop, despite the bags already at her feet. She ignored the other people chatting in a multitude of languages as they stood around her on the way out. Madame Tyrell had probably intended for her to stay and network, but Sansa didn’t want to think about work. And she really didn’t want to be hanging around when the models left the changing area.

Sansa tried not to analyze her reaction to the model too much — models were flirty, it didn’t mean anything, but she didn’t feel like thinking about why she wanted to escape the attention as soon as it came. As fresh and free as she was feeling without Joffrey, it had still only been a few weeks. Despite the whirlwind romance that Margaery wanted for her, Sansa felt pretty sure that she wasn’t ready, and this felt like proof.

It was a little sad, letting go of the idea of a Parisian romance. It was, after all, an incredibly romantic city. The sunset the night before had rolled a dusting of pink onto the cream and stone of the buildings below. Even now, emerging from the mall onto a busy roadway, couples walked hand-in-hand all around her. Her glasses of wine for one had given her no one to toast, and her bed at the hotel was larger than she needed by far. But at least there was wine and an enormous bed, and at least if she was a little sad, then she could be sad in Paris.

She checked the time. Right now she would be in the middle of a sales meeting, probably feeling sorry for herself and wishing for the weekend. Instead she ate a baguette with jamon and brie standing up on the street, cracked open a bottle of sparkling water, and went to drop off her packages.

Sansa looked through her purchases in the hotel room before she headed out, excited again. Her feet ached from hours of shopping and walking, and the enormous bathtub was calling her name. She’d have a soak later, but for now Sansa decided against doing anything strenuous for the rest of the day. Most of the places that she wanted to visit that would take a full day’s energy, so she pulled up the list on her phone to see what was nearby and less demanding.

After a few minutes of sending videos and pictures of the trip to her family‘s group chat and to Margaery, Sansa set out for the Musée d'Orsay. She paused to take another photo on the Seine, halfway across one of the beautiful bridges with ancient gargoyles and modern locks sitting side-by-side above beautiful boats transformed into floating restaurants and Bohemian apartments. 

Maybe one day she could come back, when she was ready for another romance. 

Maybe later, she promised herself, and got in line for the museum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s dress: [Reformation Harriett](https://www.thereformation.com/products/harriet-dress?color=White&via=Z2lkOi8vcmVmb3JtYXRpb24td2VibGluYy9Xb3JrYXJlYTo6Q2F0YWxvZzo6Q2F0ZWdvcnkvNWE2YWRmZDJmOTJlYTExNmNmMDRlOWM2)  
> Sansa’s jacket: [Acne mock leather jacket](https://www.mytheresa.com/en-us/acne-studios-mock-leather-jacket-1277808.html?gclid=Cj0KCQjwp5_qBRDBARIsANxdcimj8QkFI29X0pwzw3ZnKOAM_ci1spTVLCH7tAu_9ZBhlcl5e5L7qCgaAuU_EALw_wcB&utm_source=sea_pla&utm_medium=google&utm_campaign=google_sea&ef_id=Cj0KCQjwp5_qBRDBARIsANxdcimj8QkFI29X0pwzw3ZnKOAM_ci1spTVLCH7tAu_9ZBhlcl5e5L7qCgaAuU_EALw_wcB:G:s?pr=lptest1)  
> Sansa’s flats: [Aquazzura slingback flats](https://www.mytheresa.com/en-us/aquazzura-deneuve-suede-ballet-flats-1018392.html)  
> Sansa’s purse: [YSL Kate](https://www.ysl.com/us/shop-product/women/handbags-monogram-kate-with-tassel-kate-medium-with-tassel-in-smooth-leather_cod45238468ap.html#dept=women_bags_lines_kate)  
> Sansa’s favorite necklace: [Missoma gold horn](https://www.missoma.com/necklaces/long-necklaces/gold-large-horn-necklace/4148/)  
> Sansa’s sunglasses: [Celine Cat-Eye Sunglasses ](https://www.neimanmarcus.com/p/celine-cat-eye-sunglasses-prod222210026)  
> Sansa’s lipstick: [Charlotte Tillbury Pilllow Talk](https://www.sephora.com/product/matte-revolution-lipstick-P433530)
> 
> [Or see it all here!](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/186809584986/fashion-from-chapter-6-of-well-always-have-paris)


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa left the museum inspired and exhausted.

The museum was beside the Seine that split Paris into two banks, overlooking the water from a historic arched building that had once been a railway station. Inside, an enormous clock no longer told the times of coming trains, but perched above precious art and sculpture like a benevolent, gilded sun. Sansa’s favorite Degas’ lived beside vibrant Van Goghs and dreamy Monets, and she’d spent her time peering at each piece, choosing her favorite in each room before moving along to the subsequent space. She tried to choose a final favorite, but it was too hard, although she’d smiled the most to see Whistler’s Mother.

She finally wandered away from the Musée in the early evening and into the winding streets behind it. Here there were wide cobbled laneways filled with small parks and smaller restaurants, winding eventually into antiques and cobblers’ shops, packed boutiques and walk-up hotels. She stopped at a café between a bike shop and a nail salon for some coffee, and the first cup perked her right up again, tasting just as good as she remembered from that morning, if not better. She wondered if she’d ever find the best cup, or if each one would be better than the last.

The sun was lingering in the window where she sat and people-watched, warming her along with the coffee. A woman danced to a street band’s music with her dog, a pair of shop girls hurried back from their breaks, and only one man in the crowd made her look twice. But when she craned her neck, it either wasn’t Clegane, or he had already gone too far to see.

The ache of all the walking was starting in her feet again, so she was happy to make herself comfortable for a couple of hours. She got lost in reviewing her museum photos, and then in one of the art books she had picked up for her brother Bran, until the sun disappeared and she found herself at the end of her book and halfway through a plate of charcuterie and a bottle of red wine.

Sansa posted a few of her pictures to social media, then hesitated when she caught herself looking up Joffery’s name. She had blocked him from seeing her posts, but even calling up his little icon felt like a self-inflicted stab. She sighed at her phone. As much as she wanted to click on the little circle of Joffrey‘s face, she resisted, her thumb moving away from the screen.

“You are missing boyfriend?” A handsome young man was just standing up from the table beside her: he’d been hidden by the curve of the restaurant’s plush booths, but he was adjusting his messenger bag above her now, smiling mildly. 

Sansa laughed and gave him a polite smile that she hoped wasn’t inviting. “No, not so much.”

“Bien.” He kept smiling at her, but she held her bland, frozen smile until he shrugged and waved goodbye. Her shoulders slumped downward gratefully as soon as he was gone, every dimple and long limb and gorgeous curl of his hair winking out of sight as the door closed behind him.

“Sorry, Margaery,” she murmured to herself, and reached for the wine again.

After that there was nothing better to do than finish the bottle over the next few hours, reveling in crackers and smoked meats and not leaving until the whole bottle was gone. Reflecting on Joffrey had exhausted her, all the wasted years that it felt like she had let slip away — sure, she was young, but she already didn’t feel like talking to handsome Frenchmen, and what did that say about the damage that her last relationship had done? One thing was for sure, the next time she felt ready to look at any man, she would look for something completely different.

It was fully dark by the time Sansa thought she ought to head back. She was pleasantly tipsy, verging on quite drunk, the wine and cheese warring for the victory over her stomach.

Another handsome man got the door for her, and this time Sansa smiled, determined to be normal. So what if she wasn’t going to fall in love in Paris? She could still be nice. She could even flirt if she wanted to. She’d run into the right guy someday, and until then, what could she do? When she would know, she’d know.

The hotel was still buzzing when she entered, people checking in and heading out for evenings of fun and romance all around her. She steered her way around a gorgeous vintage set of Louis Vuitton luggage, and was so distracted by glancing at it that she slammed right into what felt like a wall.

“ _Shit_ ,” she said, with feeling. “I mean, _merde_.”

The wall chuckled, and Sansa squinted up to see that the wall was Clegane. Another curse word came to mind, but she bit it back this time, mindful of her wine-loosened tongue.

“Pick up some French, little bird?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Sansa snapped, remembering the time her said it on the plane. He seemed surprised to be questioned, hesitation clear before he cleared his throat and looked at her consideringly. She was surprised herself - she’d assumed he’d only given her a nickname to make fun of her somehow, but he clearly didn’t want to expand with any teasing.

He shrugged. She squinted at him, but he didn’t respond, so she shrugged back, which made him smile. “You staying safe?”

“That’s not your job anymore,” she pointed out, tugging her purse up higher on her shoulder when someone brushed past them. They both shifted out of the entryway, drawing past the front desk and toward the elevators. “You can keep your muscles to yourself.”

“What about my muscles, little bird?” Clegane smiled again - he had a gorgeous smile, she thought, but every time she’d seen it it was because he was pissing her off. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she insisted, her cheeks prickling with pink now. “And my name is Sansa. Not Miss Stark, _or_ little bird, you... big moose.”

Sandor tipped his head all the way back to laugh this time. He was wearing dark cuffed jeans, a black polo shirt, and a green bomber jacket that he’d only half-zipped. It looked like was going out, and he even smelled nice too, a whorl of smoky sandalwood and woodsy vetiver that brought a startling memory with it: a drunken night with Joffrey, a fight that left her crying outside in the car. She’d fallen asleep there and woken up with a jacket on top of her that smelled like forest and fog, keeping her warm as Clegane took her home. A shit-faced Joffrey had been stashed in the back unbuckled, and every turn made him groan.

“A big moose?” Clegane was asking now, unaware of the memories in her mind. “Not a hound, or a monster?”

“What?” she asked, blinking at Clegane. There was a growing discomfort in her now that wasn’t just the wine. It was the way she’d overlooked him for years, all while he was looking after her. “Oh, no. Not a monster.” Did he mean because of his scars? That made her suddenly sad.

“Well, you may as well call me Sandor, then,” he allowed. “Since you like my muscles so much. And here I thought you just liked skinny rich idiots,”

“Shows what you know,” she teased right back, straightening up. Time to get her drunk self together. Suddenly she was exhausted, having passed through so many emotions and neighborhoods that night on just wine and cheese. “I met Joffrey when I was twelve. But I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“You’re a little bird,” he guessed, and she reached out to smack his arm the way she would one of her brothers’. He pretended to dodge, but let her land it — his arm was like a brick in the wall of his body, and her hand stung where she made contact.

“No! I have a job and an apartment and I’m in Paris by myself. I’m a woman, damn it,” she insisted, and laughed when he made a show of rubbing his arm. “ _Une femme_.”

“Okay, fine. You’re a grown woman, I’ll let that ‘by yourself’ thing slide even though I’m here. No little Joffreys for you. Do you even know what women want?”

She fought the urge to smack him again, and shrugged instead. “A man, I guess. But right now, her bed.”

“Bed it is.” Clegane patted down his pockets and then nodded as though ready to take his leave. But instead of walking away from her, he tilted his head towards the elevators. They walked across the hotel lobby together, and waited for the elevator that she called to arrive. They didn’t speak again, but it didn’t feel strange. Sansa was already thinking over their conversation, wondering whether to be unsettled or annoyed or embarrassed. But mostly she was just tired, and she offered him a smile as she got into the elevator.

“Well, goodnight… Sandor.” 

She didn’t know how his cool eyes could look warmer now, but they did, even from a few feet away, already outside of the subtle orbit of his scent. She had been looking too long, but he didn’t break her eye contact. “Goodnight, Sansa,” he said, and the elevator doors had to cut off their gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s shopping trip (Forgot to include these last chapter):  
> Ganni [Sabine pumps](https://www.modaoperandi.com/ganni-ss18/sabine-suede-pumps)  
> A.P.C. [Lavinia dress](https://www.apc-us.com/products/lavinia-dress-viagv-f05768?variant=19472245948472)  
> Maje [Vizane suit jacket](https://us.maje.com/en/categories/coats-and-jackets/vizane/E19VIZANE.html?dwvar_E19VIZANE_color=0501#q=jacket&sz=24&start=59)
> 
> Sandor’s bar-hopping look:  
> Fred Perry [polo shirt](https://www.fredperry.com/us/men/the-fred-perry-shirt/m3600-m3600-524.html)  
> Saint Laurent [bomber](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/men/saint-laurent-bomber-jacket-item-12609792.aspx)  
> Tom Ford Oud Wood [cologne](https://www.tomford.com/oud-wood/T1-OUD-WOOD.html)
> 
> Or see them on [Tumblr](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/187133941236/fashion-from-chapter-7-of-well-always-have-paris)!


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa opened her eyes and immediately shut them again.

She was no stranger to hangovers, having had her fair share during college and beyond, but today it felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the space behind her eyes. 

The delicious French wine had turned on her, and her stomach flipped over from underneath the hotel’s crisp white sheets. She shoved them down and kicked them the rest of the way to her feet, until she could stretch out properly. She had barely managed to strip down to her butterfly panties before passing out the night before, and it all started to come back to her in rolling waves of embarrassment.

Was she misremembering, or had she had kind of a long conversation with Clegane? _Sandor_ , she remembered, and her stomach felt even weirder at that.

She took a long shower that brought her back to life. Whatever weirdness resulted from her conversation last night, she would just have to meet it. But hopefully she wouldn’t run back into Sandor — his first name still felt weird, even to think it — for a long time. 

So of course when she dragged herself down to the lobby before coffee that was no longer for pleasure and now strict necessary, there he was.

Sandor was sitting at the table in front of the far wall, streams of well-dressed Parisians headed to work passing by the bright windows behind him. He was seated facing the elevators with an empty chair across from him, so she spotted him right away under the framed arc of the windows, even though there was a newspaper half-obscuring his face.

He read newspapers a lot, she was realizing, especially in public. It must be a comfort to hide his face, create a space away from the judging eyes that she knew often cringed away from his burns. 

Joffrey had valued Sandor for the way he had inspired fear in people, but it upset Sansa to think that anyone would see Sandor as the monstrous one, and not Joffrey, whose princely looks were as deceptive as Sandor’s scars.

Still, she recognized Sandor despite the newspaper, the hunch of his shoulders behind it enough, and she was all the way across the room before she thought about what she was doing.

Sansa plopped down in the empty chair and reached across the table, leaning forward slightly to push the top of the paper down. It was _Le Monde_ , which took her aback. “You can read French?”

Sandor quirked his newly-revealed eyebrows at her. “Well, good morning.” There was an empty porcelain cup on the marble tabletop in from of him, white on white but for the drops of coffee still clinging inside. It smelled delicious, and Sansa started glancing around for a waiter. “I actually can’t even read, I’m just a bunch of muscles.”

“That’s not what I said,” Sansa complained, though she couldn’t be sure. “Maybe you can’t even understand English. I bet you didn’t even know that paper’s in French.”

“ _S’il te plaît apporte du café à cette fille_ ,” Sandor murmured to a waiter, and Sansa put her head down in her arms, muttering about show-offs.

She felt a little better once the coffee arrived, and sipped at it slowly, pretending the warmth of it was a miracle cure for the way her head felt.

“You’re up early,” she realized, once she was able to sit all the way up and take Sandor in properly. He was wearing a white tee and grey joggers with a grey sweatshirt over the back of his chair, despite the cool morning. “Did you just work out?”

“Went for a run,” he confirmed, and stretched, the tendons in his arms flexing as he settled his shoulders back. “It was really nice, actually, along the water.”

“That does sound nice.” She pictured it: Sandor jogging at a quick clip, hardly even breathing hard, his honed body moving across the ancient cobblestones. He’d been up early, had a cup of coffee, and sat with the newspaper. Had he been waiting for her? Had he even gone out the night before? “I thought you were going were going to go get laid last night,” she tried joking, but it fell a little flat.

He shrugged and reached for her coffee, taking a sip as she sputtered at him. “I can do that anytime,” he demurred, and she gaped at him. “I just felt like a drink.”

“You can do that anytime,” she repeated. This from the man who hid his face? Sure, he was strong and safe and apparently spoke French, and the contrast of his chest under his crisp white tee with the dark stubble at his throat was actually kind of mouth-watering, but she’d never taken him for a womanizer.

Still, he nodded. “Bar hookups aren’t hard, little bird. They just don’t go anywhere. Except out the door the next morning, as fast as possible.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she sniffed.

“You’re due,” he observed, handing her coffee back. She took it, only to realize that he had drained the rest of the small cup.

“You moose,” she accused, putting it back down, and he laughed. “What do you mean, I’m due?” She straightened up, afraid he saw something desperate about her. It had been a few weeks since she’d last been with Joffrey, but surely there wasn’t an air of needing to get laid about her, something he could sniff out? She’d thrown on her jeans and a cozy sweater and her slip-on espadrilles that morning, the easiest things that she felt confident wearing outside. Her hair was still in a messy post-shower bun, but it was dry enough to take down now, so she shook it out into damp waves over her shoulders, relaxing once it framed her face again, safe in its security blanket.

Sandor blinked at her, then looked away, then looked back. “Oh,” he answered, as though he’d just heard the question, “Uh. You know, a rebound. They’re pretty normal, is all. I’ve seen a few Frenchies checking you out, you could get yourself a fresh demi-baguette by the end of the day.”

She was grateful he hadn’t volunteered, even jokingly - this new camaraderie between them was weird enough without his hitting on her. Sansa just wasn’t the one-night-stand type, she thought, and it wasn’t like she was going to date Sandor. Or wanted to — not that she didn’t specifically not want to, but she hadn’t seen him they way until now — not that she saw him that way now — not that she was _anti_ -Sandor… her thoughts had gotten too confusing. Instead she mentally filed the phrase _demi-baguette_ away to share with Margeary, and changed the subject.

“What are you doing today?” She had planned on continuing the museum theme, since she was up early enough to actually cover the Louvre. “Stalking me some more?”

“Headed to the Louvre,” he answered easily, and she sighed. “What?”

“You’re not going to the Louvre,” she said slowly, gesturing between them, “because _I’m_ going to the Louvre.”

“I think they can fit two people,” Sandor asserted, and Sansa put her head in her hands.

“Okay, fine. Whatever,” she allowed, from behind her hair. “I’ll see you there, I guess.”

“We can start at different ends,” he suggested, and she nodded, then stood back up.

“I’m going to change. Do you want to split a cab?”

“You’re already dressed,” he pointed out, waving vaguely at her outfit.

“ _You’re_ not,” she retorted. She repeated the waving motion back at him and his stupid sweatpants. “So I’ll meet you back here in half an hour. You can’t let the Mona Lisa see you like this.”

She could hear him laughing as she walked away.

Sansa did her makeup quickly, but for some reason she kept overthinking what she should wear. She was sure that Sandor would make some stupid comment, and she started looking at her clothing with his opinion coloring her judgement. Would her romper look too much like pajamas to wear to a museum? Was it really practical to wear heels to walk the halls? She had no way of knowing what his opinions would be, but Joffrey had certainly provided a running commentary on whatever Sansa wore. If Sandor had had any negative thoughts on her clothing before, he had been too professional to share them.

In the end, she decided to ignore other people’s opinions, perceived or otherwise, and wore what she wanted. She wanted to bring her favorite coat, so she dug out a minimal outfit to match, and kept her espadrilles out to slip back into. Neutral colors warmed her pale complexion and gave the brightness of her hair a beautiful background.

She made sure to grab her camera and sketchbook, then dabbed some perfume onto her wrists and throat. For Sansa, she moved quickly, but Sandor still managed to beat her to the lobby.

As soon as the doors of the elevator slid open, he caught her eye, standing at the front door. He made a show of tapping his watch, and she shook her head. He must have rushed his shower to beat her, just to be a smug bastard. His hair was still wet and pulled back tight, one damp piece escaping to curl beside his ear. 

“I got a map,” he said without ceremony, as soon as she pulled up to him. “Take a look.” He practically shoved it at her before turning to go, and she stuck her nose in it at she followed. Sandor opened the door to the first passing cab for her, and she flapped the opened map at him as soon as they were both seated and on their way, the cab perfumed with stale cigarettes and staler leather. A bouncy pop song was on the radio, intercut with incomprehensible but equally bouncy ads.

“Looks like you can start here,” she decided, pointing at one end of the Louvre’s long halls, “and I can start… here.”

“But I want to go over there,” he said, wiggling her finger out of the way with his, so it marked the starting point she’d mapped out for herself, resting lightly on her thigh through the booklet.

Sansa sighed. “Are you trying to be difficult?”

“No, it comes very easily,” he said seriously, and she flicked his finger off the page. “But I want to see the _Coronation of Napoleon_ and this place is huge.”

“Fine.” Sansa glanced at the side of the map she had assigned him, and realized she didn’t want to risk missing the other end. “I guess we’ll just bump into each other.” 

“We’re getting pretty good at it.” He snatched the map back and stuffed in into his jacket, wrinkling it beyond help. He’d put his bomber jacket back on, paired with a fresher white tee and a pair of jeans that looked dark and heavy. 

It felt strange to get slide of the car after Sandor thinking they were about to separate for the day. But she steeled herself to say goodbye, however awkward it was sure to be. They’d split up, have another weird run-in in some hallway, and that would be that.

And then she saw the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s lingerie:  
> Fleur du Mal [bra](https://www.fleurdumal.com/collections/lingerie/products/butterfly-embroidered-balconette-bra-pink-opal) and [panties](https://www.fleurdumal.com/collections/lingerie/products/butterfly-embroidered-tanga-pink-opal)
> 
> Sansa’s cozy outfit:  
> Sweater: [Ganni Julliard sweater](https://www.theoutnet.com/en-us/shop/product/heavy-knit_cod1392478500745.html?cm_mmc=ProductSearchPLA-_-US-_-Clothing-_-Knitwear-Google&gclid=Cj0KCQjwho7rBRDxARIsAJ5nhFrq6DvndL_2wA9OFehP-Xc14IH7U1ktU_RcB_YVwZnjoQNip_jAFZEaAvlAEALw_wcB&gclsrc=aw.ds&tp=146770)  
> Jeans: [Levi’s 501 skinny](https://www.revolve.com/501-skinny/dp/LEIV-WJ66/?d=Womens&AID=11017645&PID=2178999&utm_medium=affiliate&utm_source=cj&source=cj&utm_campaign=glob_p_1909792&cjevent=02e79c7cc88511e98362003d0a1c0e0c)  
> Belt: [Hermes Pegase](https://www.hermes.com/us/en/product/pegase-belt-buckle-reversible-leather-strap-32mm-U_BELT_32_HOMMEpH077933CM2MpH075394CAAM090/)
> 
> Sandor’s workout outfit:  
> Shirt: [Lululemon Vent Tech tee](https://shop.lululemon.com/p/men-ss-tops/Metal-Vent-Tech-Short-Sleeve-2/_/prod140003?color=12826)  
> Sweats: [Everlane fleece crewneck](https://www.everlane.com/products/mens-midwt-fleece-sweatshirt2-heathergrey?collection=mens-sweatshirts)  
> Pants: [Everlane classic sweatpant](https://www.everlane.com/products/mens-french-terry-sweatpant-heathergrey)
> 
> Sansa’s Louvre outfit:  
> Coat: [Maxmara wool peacoat ](https://us.maxmara.com/p-9011059106033-caban-camel)  
> Top: [& Other Stories ribbed tank](https://www.stories.com/en_usd/clothing/tops/product.ribbed-turtleneck-tank-top-white.0782980001.html)  
> Pants: [& Other Stories relaxed high rise jeans](https://www.stories.com/en_usd/clothing/trousers/product.relaxed-high-rise-pleat-jeans-beige.0764030001.html)  
> Necklaces: Missoma [coin stack](https://www.missoma.com/shop/categories/necklaces/coin-necklace/6568/coin-story/) and [Chloe Femininities](https://www.ssense.com/en-us/women/product/chloe/gold-femininities-necklace/4024091?gclid=EAIaIQobChMI29nqjp-J5AIVB8NkCh0u6AxaEAkYAyABEgJXSPD_BwE) necklace  
> Shoes: [Chanel espadrilles](https://www.chanel.com/us/fashion/p/G29762X01000C0204/espadrilles-lambskin/?ranMID=39938&ranEAID=je6NUbpObpQ&ranSiteID=je6NUbpObpQ-ToXpB2WtBYIjSHOj3wWKvQ&wt.mc_id=fb_eye_affiliate_en_us_dis&wt.mc_t=display&utm_source=linkshare&utm_medium=affiliate&utm_campaign=fb_eye_affiliate&siteID=je6NUbpObpQ-ToXpB2WtBYIjSHOj3wWKvQ)  
> Purse:  
> [Gucci soho disco](https://www.gucci.com/us/en/pr/women/womens-handbags/womens-crossbody-bags/soho-small-leather-disco-bag-p-308364A7M0G2754)
> 
> Sandor’s Louvre outfit:  
> T-shirt: [white Theory tee](https://www.saksfifthavenue.com/theory-short-sleeve-cotton-tee/product/0400097348013?site_refer=CSE_GGLPLA:Mens_Shirts+%26+Tops:Theory&gclsrc=aw.ds&&gclid=Cj0KCQjwho7rBRDxARIsAJ5nhFpHNWrGWyQzXZUjh6SvSqFiHgzZyGbHzpGRc4ogGRgv_Ay8zcfW0zgaAn7bEALw_wcB)  
> Jacket: [Saint Laurent bomber jacket](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/men/saint-laurent-bomber-jacket-item-12609792.aspx?fsb=1&storeid=9644&size=20&clickref=1011l6u7qspt&utm_source=shopstyle&utm_medium=affiliate&utm_campaign=PHUS&utm_term=USNetwork&pid=performancehorizon_int&c=shopstyle&clickid=1011l6u7qspt&af_siteid=1101l510&af_sub_siteid=1011l270&af_cost_model=CPA&af_channel=affiliate&is_retargeting=true)  
> Pants: [Rag & Bone raw denim](https://www.rag-bone.com/mens/jeans/fit-2-in-raw-190297874214.html?country=US&currency=USD&gdffi=05b9e48b03464e36afc0f8af6967be74&gdfms=3885D1DBEC064812A8453D5911E93849&gclid=Cj0KCQjwho7rBRDxARIsAJ5nhFpzYXA944_K5lkCod_3Phf_r6qvoOsZNeAOJ-PsnURubbj4-zDDNhwaAs1uEALw_wcB)  
> Shoes: [Allsaints Marcel boot](https://www.us.allsaints.com/men/boots-and-shoes/allsaints-marcel-boot/?colour=5&category=21760)
> 
> Sansa’s birthday dress: [For Love & Lemons Showtime mini dress](https://www.saksfifthavenue.com/for-love-lemons-showtime-sequin-mini-dress/product/0400010156335)
> 
> See it all on my [Tumblr](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/187305306441/well-always-have-paris-chapter-8-fashion-sansas)!


	9. Chapter 9

The line went on for what felt like a hundred years in front of them, groups of students and tourists clustered by the dozen, some following flag-waving leaders that shouted art history facts at random.

The day was crisp and clear, and the view of the building and the park behind them was impressive, the pyramid itself stretching up ahead like a beacon. Ancient cobblestones under their feet made Sansa think of things like horse-drawn carriages and long ladies’ skirts. It was a perfect Parisian morning, everything she’d dreamed of when she’d booked her ticket and packed her bags.

But beside her, so enormous that she stood in his shadow, was Sandor Clegane. And he was positively annoying the shit out of her. 

Sure, he wasn’t doing much. But the stoic silence with which he stood beside her was unnerving. Here she was, twenty minutes into purgatory, her mind flitting about ( _not_ like a bird) while Sandor did his best impression of a statue beside her.

She glanced over at him again. Sandor was the picture of patience, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the lock of hair that wasn’t pulled severely back now dry and curling up the side of his scars. Sansa was a tall woman, with long legs and a lean torso, but his legs came past hers, his chest and arms testing the fabric of his bomber at her eye level. From this close, she could see his jaw better than his face, the stubble underneath his chin more visible than his eyes. She looked away, then back again, this time suspicious that he’d be staring back, but he didn’t even react to her, so still had he gone.

“Do you just power down like a robot?” She asked finally, in a bigger burst of annoyance than she’d intended.

Sandor snorted and finally looked down at her. “You have seen me at work before, haven’t you, girl?”

“It must be so boring.” From what Sansa could see, he wasted half his life standing around on the off-chance that something would happen. And she was pretty sick of standing still, herself, including in this line.

“Boring. Alright.” Sandor glanced around them. The couple in front of them was chatting in Portuguese, and the group behind them was trying to coordinate two strollers’ worth of babies. Satisfied that no one was listening to them, he focused on Sansa. The presence of his heavy grey eye contact, after its notable lack, was startling. “You see the man at three o’clock?”

“Three-” Sansa glanced over, but the angle of the courtyard threw her off. “Where’s noon?”

“Ex-military. Nothing elite, but still works out. And back at the fountain?”

She spun to see: it was directly behind the courtyard, half-hidden by the line that had collected behind them.

“Drunk students,” Sandor continued, before she’d even spotted them. “About a dozen, stupid teens egging each other on, another potential threat. There was a pickpocket casing the crowd here earlier, up front, but he left when a police officer passed by. He needn’t have: the officer was distracted, hurrying east. No sirens, though, so nothing major.”

“So you’re working,” she noted, a little surprised at how much he’d taken in. At how much was happening around them that she’d missed. “Assessing risk.”

“It’s just the mode I go into,” he said with a shrug. “But part of my mind still wanders when I’m on guard duty. There’s a lot of time to think when there’s nothing to notice.”

Sandor Clegane, the deep thinker. She was surprised to find that she wasn’t surprised. “Is that when you practice your French?” she asked, meaning for it to be teasing, but it fell a little flat. She’d taken French for two years and never retained a conjugation: Sandor’s was easy and conversational, guttural and natural the way his voice always sounded.

He tilted his shoulder in an approximation of a shrug, the motion tugging the nylon of his jacket over one colossal bicep. “French, Spanish, Farsi, Mandarin.”

“The basics,” she supplied, to keep her mouth from dropping open. “No Russian?”

He waggled his hand in the universal signal for _eh, a little_. “Я пытаюсь выучить.”

Sansa shook her head. “I know nothing about you.”

Sandor shrugged, uncaring, but with dozens of people still waiting in front of them, she couldn’t think of a better time to find out who she’d spent half her trip with so far. “Are _you_ French? Fancy parents? How did you end up learning so many languages and working for Joffrey?” Sandor made so many jokes about wealth that his being a trust fund baby hadn’t seemed likely, but there was clearly more to him than appeared on the scarred surface. “Let me guess, you’re a finishing school dropout who fell in love with Cersei —“

Sandor’s huge hand clamped down over her mouth, and Sansa shrieked behind it. A few people glanced at them, then looked away smiling, likely assuming they were playful honeymooners. Sandor pulled his palm away a little too slowly, so his fingertips brushed her cheek, but he was giving her a long-suffering look that made her giggle once free. 

“How dare you,” he said mildly, and Sansa’s giggling became impossible to stop. “Cut it out.” He reached for her as if to tickle her, but dropped his hand so quickly she wasn’t sure if he’d been conscious of it.

“It’s okay if you’re secretly Joffrey’s dad,” she said sweetly in return. She wondered if he’d reach back out for her, but he didn’t, just shook his head. 

“How old do you think I am?”

“Fifty,” she lied promptly. “...five.”

“Yeah, I’m not telling you anything about me,” he said firmly, crossing his arms again.

“Gods, it was a joke, you moose.” Sansa blinked up appealingly at a cold shoulder. “I’ll tell you about me. I have five brothers-“

“-if you include the fosters,” he finished. “Jon and Theon. One sister, who’s a real thorn in your side, so she must have great taste. Your parents are somehow still together despite raising a small army, and everything is one big happy family forever.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She was half-stunned, half-ashamed. He really had known her for years. And she’d been so wrapped up in appeasing Joffrey, following him around like a lovesick puppy while Sandor, loyal as a hound, shadowed them both.

“You love ridiculous shoes and sugary breakfasts and old music,” Sandor continued, more quietly. A space opened up and they shuffled forward a few steps on the cobblestones. “You have a degree in fashion merchandising but a head for politics, you’re incredibly heavy when you’re drunk, and you never cry where anyone can see you.”

“When did you carry me?” Sansa seized on, in horror, before remembering her twenty-first birthday in a wave of humiliation that heated her to her toes. He could see the exact moment that she remembered, too — his scarred smirk gave it away.

“You threw up on my shoulder a little,” he confirmed, and Sansa covered her ears.

“That’s really not cute,” she muttered.

“You’d be surprised.” Sandor had relaxed a little, the terse way he’d thrown her own life back at her fading into something a little softer. He even took his hands out of his pockets to gesture as he told her his side of the story. His stoicism nearly melted away as he recounted the night, and she was left boggling up at him, the way his furious mask smoothed over when he was this amused, this relaxed.

“You should go on vacation more,” Sansa blurted out. They’d moved forward a solid ten yards in his retelling of the story, and were on to the part where he had to bribe a Vegas dry cleaner to rescue her sequined dress, since Joffrey’s personal assistant had still been at the club with Joffrey. Sansa’s memory of the night had always gotten fuzzy between birthday shots at a poolside club and nursing a hangover the next morning in bed while Joffrey gambled. She’d always wondered how her dress had wound up hanging in plastic on the back of the door, but she would have been happy not to be reminded of how the Jägermeister had come right back up.

“I’m on vacation now,” Sandor pointed out, stopping his storytelling to furrow his eyebrows at her. 

“I know, I just mean, you’re so much happier here. Not so scary.”

“Scary, huh?” Sandor quirked the brow that had a burn running through it. A thin stripe of hair was missing, replaced by a twisted cord of white that looked rough and soft at the same time. He’d never looked less scary.

“It’s just your work face,” she realized, a spark of redemption alighting in her chest when she remembered the things that she did know about him in return. “You’re actually not scary at all, except professionally. You take your job really seriously, even if you didn’t take Joffrey seriously.”

“Who could?” he rumbled, and then coughed. “Apologies.”

Sansa shrugged. She refused to get drawn into thinking about Joffrey. “I’m happy I’m here now,” she said, instead of anything about the heartbreak and the embarrassment that still nagged at her every night. “It’s time I figure out who I am without him.”

“Someone who pays for the Louvre tickets?” Sandor suggested with a smirk. Sansa glanced away from him, and was surprised to see that they’d made it almost to the front of the line.

“Fat chance,” she said, and nodded at his shoes. “For someone who makes fun of my industry, you seem pretty up on the department stores.”

“I’ve done okay for a while now,” Sandor allowed, his face shifting into something more furtive. They’d made it to the front of the line, and he squinted at the tellers to avoid eye contact. “That’s probably why I joke about it — it still feels itchy on me.”

“You wear it well,” she admitted, glad he was looking away in case she was blushing. They stepped up to the next open ticket-seller and reached for their wallets at the same time. Sansa offered to pay after all, but Sandor insisted, and Sansa made a mental note to pay for their next round of coffee.

They entered the Louvre and hesitated. Hallways and statues already beckoned in separate directions, and even though they’d both agreed to go the same way, it already seemed clear that the crowds and the size of the museum would sweep them apart in minutes if they didn’t move together intentionally. Sansa considered it, wondered whether he was, knew he must be, speculated as to how he felt about it, and then remembered she had to decide how _she_ felt about it — all within an instant. Sandor caught her eye and they both broke — Sansa giggling and Sandor huffing out a chuckle.

“Well, I guess I’ll catch you later,” Sandor offered. She was a little disappointed, since their conversation in line had been their best so far, but he had a point. At the rate they kept bumping into each other, she was sure to see him soon.

“I, um, you too,” she managed, and spun away. Maybe she could use the break from Sandor for a while. Something about being around him here was doing something to her. Something confusing, yet compelling... and entirely unfamiliar. She thought she liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s Louvre outfit:  
> Coat: [Maxmara wool peacoat ](https://us.maxmara.com/p-9011059106033-caban-camel)  
> Top: [& Other Stories ribbed tank](https://www.stories.com/en_usd/clothing/tops/product.ribbed-turtleneck-tank-top-white.0782980001.html)  
> Pants: [& Other Stories relaxed high rise jeans](https://www.stories.com/en_usd/clothing/trousers/product.relaxed-high-rise-pleat-jeans-beige.0764030001.html)  
> Necklaces: Missoma [coin stack](https://www.missoma.com/shop/categories/necklaces/coin-necklace/6568/coin-story/) and [Chloe Femininities](https://www.ssense.com/en-us/women/product/chloe/gold-femininities-necklace/4024091?gclid=EAIaIQobChMI29nqjp-J5AIVB8NkCh0u6AxaEAkYAyABEgJXSPD_BwE) necklace  
> Shoes: [Chanel espadrilles](https://www.chanel.com/us/fashion/p/G29762X01000C0204/espadrilles-lambskin/?ranMID=39938&ranEAID=je6NUbpObpQ&ranSiteID=je6NUbpObpQ-ToXpB2WtBYIjSHOj3wWKvQ&wt.mc_id=fb_eye_affiliate_en_us_dis&wt.mc_t=display&utm_source=linkshare&utm_medium=affiliate&utm_campaign=fb_eye_affiliate&siteID=je6NUbpObpQ-ToXpB2WtBYIjSHOj3wWKvQ)  
> Purse:  
> [Gucci soho disco](https://www.gucci.com/us/en/pr/women/womens-handbags/womens-crossbody-bags/soho-small-leather-disco-bag-p-308364A7M0G2754)
> 
> Sandor’s Louvre outfit:  
> T-shirt: [white Theory tee](https://www.saksfifthavenue.com/theory-short-sleeve-cotton-tee/product/0400097348013?site_refer=CSE_GGLPLA:Mens_Shirts+%26+Tops:Theory&gclsrc=aw.ds&&gclid=Cj0KCQjwho7rBRDxARIsAJ5nhFpHNWrGWyQzXZUjh6SvSqFiHgzZyGbHzpGRc4ogGRgv_Ay8zcfW0zgaAn7bEALw_wcB)  
> Jacket: [Saint Laurent bomber jacket](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/men/saint-laurent-bomber-jacket-item-12609792.aspx?fsb=1&storeid=9644&size=20&clickref=1011l6u7qspt&utm_source=shopstyle&utm_medium=affiliate&utm_campaign=PHUS&utm_term=USNetwork&pid=performancehorizon_int&c=shopstyle&clickid=1011l6u7qspt&af_siteid=1101l510&af_sub_siteid=1011l270&af_cost_model=CPA&af_channel=affiliate&is_retargeting=true)  
> Pants: [Rag & Bone raw denim](https://www.rag-bone.com/mens/jeans/fit-2-in-raw-190297874214.html?country=US&currency=USD&gdffi=05b9e48b03464e36afc0f8af6967be74&gdfms=3885D1DBEC064812A8453D5911E93849&gclid=Cj0KCQjwho7rBRDxARIsAJ5nhFpzYXA944_K5lkCod_3Phf_r6qvoOsZNeAOJ-PsnURubbj4-zDDNhwaAs1uEALw_wcB)  
> Shoes: [Allsaints Marcel boot](https://www.us.allsaints.com/men/boots-and-shoes/allsaints-marcel-boot/?colour=5&category=21760)
> 
> See it all on my [Tumblr](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/187995050831/sansas-louvre-outfit-coat-maxmara-wool-peacoat)!


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa thought that she would be too distracted by her conversation with Sandor, with the strange new thing fizzing up in her stomach, to take the Louvre in properly. She was wrong. As soon as she lost sight of Sandor, she was swept into a sea of people that moved and flowed like a river with currents in every direction. She was lost at once, swirled into shoulders and brushstrokes and ancient worlds.

There was Egypt, laid out in dazzling color, and white statues of women’s necks and the flanks of horses that stunned even in their starkness. There were paintings of princesses whose eyes made Sansa want to weep, although their expressions were nothing more than strokes of color. She passed war scenes and still lifes so realistic that she could smell cannonfire and taste plums. It was being surrounded by people and utterly alone, it was walking until her feet hurt, and it was the Mona Lisa’s benevolent face. It was an inspiring, exhausting, humbling experience to be surrounded by so much beauty, and to think of how much more beauty was out there, beyond its ancient walls. Joffrey would’ve gotten bored two rooms in, but Sansa felt like she was spinning through room after room after room with no sign of stopping, never wanting to wake up from the art dream that surrounded her.

She came to her senses in the gift shop, exhausted and starving. It was five hours later, suddenly, and still so much more to see. But Sansa was exhausted, and all she had the energy left to do was to buy gifts for her family. Everyone got a postcard, an art book, a watercolor-stained scarf. But Sansa was the most excited about what she’d stopped and sketched along the way.

Loaded down with change and shopping bags though she was, Sansa was unable to resist another flip through her notebook on the way out. She wandered through the exit and onto the crunching gravel of the Cour Napoléon, paging through the sketches and notes she had made.

She wound back out around the line of people, glancing up only to cross the roundabout that led back to the park. Fountains sprang up between lines of trees, people on bicycles, and dogs chasing sticks. 

Here and there, clusters of people sat at tables and on blankets, picnic lunches spread between them. Students shared chips and candies, an elderly couple cut fruit into slices, and a man — Sandor — stood in front of her with a paper bag that didn’t quite conceal the wine and bread inside of it.

Something warm bubbled up in Sansa’s chest. He’d tugged his hair out of its bun, and he looked antsy and handsome and dangerous.

He was clearly waiting for her, so she walked right up to him, only stopping once they were nearly toe-to-toe, her arms crossed across her chest as she waited to hear what he might say.

“Hey,” he started, shifting his weight as though uncomfortable. “Have I been an asshole to you?”

Sansa almost laughed, but managed to press her lips together to hide her smile. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I feel like I have been. And I didn’t mean to, I just don’t spend a lot of time with people outside of work. I’m solo most of the time, so I probably don’t have the manners you’re used to.”

“I never would have guessed,” she said, trying for sarcastic, but he nodded as though she was serious.

“Growing up no one wanted to talk to the kid with all this shit on his face. Plus I’d hit anyone as soon as look at them to protect myself, and I assumed the worst of any romantic— anyway.” He cleared his throat, and Sansa tried to cover her shock. She’d always assumed he’d picked up his scars as an adult, and imagining Sandor having a lonely childhood because of them was awful, although it explained a lot.

“I travel a lot for work, too, this was the longest I’ve been contracted by any one family.” Sandor was still rambling, but her heart had already melted. “I got used to you, but I’m sorry if I don’t know how to transition into normal… human… friendliness. Or whatever.”

“Friendliness.” Sansa uncrossed her arms, shifted her museum bags, and reached for the bag he carried. “Or whatever.”

He let her take the bag without protest, reaching for her gift bags instead so she could look through what he’d picked up. There was a bottle of rosé, a fresh baguette, and neat packages of saucisson and pâté. Cornichons, fig jam, a few cheeses and even a few madeleines emerged as she investigated, and she lowered the bag with a smile. “Well, I’m glad you got used to me, because this looks delicious. How long have you been waiting out here?”

“Not long,” he said cagily. “I thought I might have missed you when I picked this stuff up at the dépanneur.”

“Oh no, I was so caught up in all that art,” she laughed. “I’m surprised you even made it out before me, there’s so much to see”

“Well, in all honesty, I’ve been to the Louvre like six times,” he confessed, and they set off through the park. He made her bags look as light as air, all bunched up on one of his sturdy forearms, and it turned out he had a lot to say about art history.

Sandor was halfway through his expletive-laced theory that Picasso had stolen the Mona Lisa when they found the perfect place to stop, between a carousel and a small pond that children floated toy boats in. An ornate park bench sat empty, and they plopped down side-by-side to eat.

They passed an hour there as easily as they had waited in line together, taking sips of wine between stacks of meat and bread and cheese that put Sansa’s typical healthy snacks to shame.

“I’m going to gain forty pounds,” she said serenely, licking some jam off of her thumb, and Sandor laughed.

“But then you could buy a whole new wardrobe,” he pointed out, and she nodded happily.

“The fashion here _is_ amazing, you have to admit. I’m getting so much inspiration, look.” She opened her notebook and showed him the pages. It felt a little too vulnerable, at first, to see him look through it. But he was careful and slow on each page, studying each sketch before turning to the next with one oversized, yet careful, finger.

The realization that she was thinking of his fingers were enormous and competent left Sansa fighting a blush. She felt so at home with him somehow, sitting side-by-side as though they’d planned this trip together. She could picture spending the rest of the trip with him easily — Versailles, long dinners, and before she could help it, she found herself wondering about going back to his hotel room, creeping from her door to his to see if his sheets were just as white and soft.

Where were those thoughts coming from? She’d seen Sandor standing by doors and nightclub booths for years, the steady span of his shoulders a familiar comfort. And all that time, she’d never thought of him in any particularly romantic way. But then, he’d always been quiet, and she’d been wrapped up in the daily drama of Joffrey’s tantrums and his mother’s controlling interference.

And she’d never seen him like this, quiet and thoughtful and supportive as he looked through her notebook. She was usually uncomfortable when it came to showing other people her doodles and thoughts, but not with him, somehow. He turned the page to show her something she’d just done — a quick sketch of the girl from an ancient Italian painting, her brush-stroked face the picture of effortless beauty. She had been so taken with the girl’s features that she’d had to make a quick drawing, wanting to keep it with her forever.

“Is this you?” Sandor was asking, against all odds.

“No!” Sansa snatched the book back and held it up to her face as a comparison. “Pretty sure she’s a goddess.”

“That’s why I asked,” he said, and now she really had to fight a blush from overcoming her freckles and color-matching the titian of her hair.

“Do you want to go to dinner with me?” Sana’a asked compulsively — then her stomach clenched, hearing how forward that sounded. But she swallowed hard and forged ahead. “I mean, if you’re free, we can keep hanging out. If you want to. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” he repeated after her, though his face had gone a little funny. “But I don’t— I mean, why waste more time with me?”

“It’s not a waste,” she said slowly, confused. Did he think so little of himself? “I mean, I’ve liked hanging out with you so far. It hasn’t been as awful as I thought, anyway.”

“High praise,” he rumbled, sounding more comfortable now that she was teasing him again. “You’re sweet. But I don’t want to take up too much of your trip. I’d hate to distract you from, you know, finding yourself.”

Was that what she’d said to him? It felt like an ancient idea, even if she’d been determined to do so a few days before. She knew who she was here — a decent enough artist, a sightly lonely but self-sufficient woman with a penchant for shopping and baked goods. Now she only found herself wanting to find someone else — find out more about Sandor, see how deep the well of his joking demeanor went, unearth the inner thoughts beneath. Sometimes, like now, the way he looked at her gave her a fluttering feeling, like he was nearly giving away something that sat just under the surface. She’d thought maybe he would want to spend more time with her, too, and it stung a bit that he wanted to leave her to her own devices. Or maybe he just wanted to be left to his own.

“Okay, sorry,” she decided, a little embarrassed that he seemed to want the rest of the week to himself. Maybe he’d only waited for her in order to apologize, and now that she’d accepted that apology, they could separate for good. There were only a few days left in Paris, and maybe she’d regret becoming distracted from the trip that she had planned in the first place, anyway. “Well, thanks for lunch.”

“I— yeah. You’re welcome.” He looked almost sorry, now that she’d accepted the offer of distance, but she wasn’t about to argue with him or beg him to hang out with her. They had a weird connection, she couldn’t deny it now, but it didn’t have to mean anything. 

They packed up in silence. Just a few minutes ago the air between them had been filled with teasing and a playful, effortless energy. Now she felt miles away from the happy people around them, and more distant from Sandor than any of the strangers. Their hands bumped against each others’ on the bench reaching for the empty paper bag, and Sansa pulled hers away first.

She wanted to cry, she felt rejected, and she felt utterly confused at the strength of her feelings. Why wouldn’t she want to continue the solo trip she’d planned? Was one brush-off from Sandor all it took to bring her lower than breakup had?

Well, screw that. Sansa gave Sandor a tight smile and snatched up her purse. “See you around then!”

He may have said her name when she walked away, but she just walked faster. Why should she care so much whether Sandor wanted to hang out with her? He’d been lucky that she had invited him to dinner in the first place, and she could have plenty of fun all by herself.

And so, to cheer herself up, Sansa turned left and headed toward Chanel.

The trip to 31 Rue de Cambon was a pilgrimage that Sansa had wanted to make her entire life, and every step toward the black and white storefront made her feel a little bit better. The small street that housed the boutique was as charmingly Parisian as any she had seen so far, and her first step through the door and onto the marble floors made all of Sansa’s worries wash away.

Forget about men and boys and all of their bullshit. The only person she needed was Coco Chanel.

The ground floor held a store, which contained more treasures than she had ever seen before. Perfume, clothing, accessories, and a famous set of curved, mirror-lined stairs that hinted at a salon for suiting and couture fittings, as well as a small apartment packed with camellias, plush velvet furniture, and gilded trinkets. The air smelled like rose, jasmine, and Marilyn Monroe: the scent of Chanel No. 5. 

As soon as Sansa arrived, a security guard the size of Sandor greeted her — which stung a little, but then she was welcomed by a sales assistant, who swept her inside and offered some champagne while the people ahead of her finished browsing. She wandered around, getting lost in lambskin and caviar leather, in gold and silver hardware and gently-interlocked Cs.

Finally it was her turn. A woman named Shae helped her browse, answering every question that Sansa ventured to ask about the purses and their history. But there was only one bag that she had come for, and saved for, and planned to pay off until well after Christmas. 

Shae went to a back room and returned, a protective cloth bag in her hands. And the last thing on Sansa’s mind was Sandor when Shae opened it up to show her.

The Chanel medium double flap in plush beige clair caviar leather, perfected with elegant swoops and lines and a sumptuous softness that she ached to snatch out of Shae’s hands to touch. Gorgeous light gold hardware completed the picture, making it altogether the most classically beautiful bag that Sansa had ever seen. She’d lucked out, Shae told her, as the color combination was only available seasonally, and she’d snagged the last one within the nearest three boutiques. It wasn’t just the champagne: Sansa’s head felt light and her heart was singing.

Then she was ushered into a small room and her wallet got even lighter. But it was all worth it. She handed over her credit card and the bag was rewrapped, sending a pang through her as it disappeared back into pristine Chanel packaging. She signed an invoice and VAT paperwork, telling herself that she was saving tax money by buying the bag here, rather than just wasting a few thousand dollars on a glorified tampon carrier or whatever horrible thing Joffrey would have said about something that brought her joy.

After all, she knew now that Joffrey didn’t understand love.

Shae hailed Sansa a taxi to return to the hotel immediately afterward, as Sansa was too fearful to carry her new baby through the streets, and they hugged goodbye. Sansa briefly considered quitting her job at Haute Highgarden to work at the Chanel store, but talked herself down. Maybe one day she’d have her own famous little apartment with a store selling her designs down below. But for now, she couldn’t wait to take home her own perfect little piece of Paris.

It wasn’t until after she had returned to her hotel room and staged a mini photoshoot with her new purse on the pillows that she went to add a sketch to her notebook and found it missing. She must have left it somewhere — perhaps on the park bench, with Sandor.

Sansa’s things were scattered all over the bedspread, with no notebook to be seen among the chapstick and receipts and scattered francs. Right now finding him to ask if he’d seen it sounded like torture. It hurt her to let it go, with all of her Louvre memories tied up into the sketches inside, but maybe she could buy another notebook.

Anything would be better than facing Sandor, and another rejection, again.

At least she had her purse, she reflected, and she snuggled back to watch a french movie. She pulled it into her lap and, with no one there to judge her, tucked it onto the pillow beside her to watch too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picasso stealing the Mona Lisa: Sounds crazy, but Sandor has a point. Picasso’s friend was accused of the theft, and Picasso famously denied knowing him in court. However, he was living in France at the time and in possession of other stolen pieces from the Louvre. Some art theorists speculate that he commissioned its theft, although it’s pretty unlikely that we’ll ever know the truth. [Learn more](https://www.huffpost.com/entry/picasso-stole-the-mona-lisa-jk-maybe_n_55d61363e4b0ab468da0364d)!
> 
> See the fashion from this chapter [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/188599347351/sansas-louvre-outfit-coat-maxmara-wool-peacoat)!


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, Sansa had no time to dwell on the previous days’ embarrassment. As soon as she rolled over to the sound of her alarm, she had to pop right up to catch her train.

She’d gotten the advice from Margaery to head to Versailles as early as possible, to avoid the inevitable crowds that filled the palace even mid-week, so she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and ran the shower as hot as she could stand. She spent a few minutes fixing up her hair and makeup, and then slid a simple copper slip dress over her head that felt like wearing a sexy, comfortable nightgown. She paired it with white walking shoes and her favorite camel coat, and moved her wallet and phone over to her brand-new bag. 

By six, she was walking out of the hotel, bundled up in her coat and clutching a small to-go cup of coffee. She was sure that it was too early to see Sandor out and about, but he slipped past her as she exited, ducking under her arm to re-enter the hotel through the main doors. He practically had to do the limbo to get underneath her arm, and he came so close she caught a whiff of his sweat. He was clearly coming back from another dawn run, and as much as she expected to be annoyed by his smell and his closeness, it just left her a little sad as he winked and went inside.

There was no time to dwell on it, though — she had to run to the metro station, where she bought her tickets, and just barely made the train. She had originally imagined taking the metro to be intimidating, but she had moved too quickly to worry, and almost at once the train began to move out of the city.

Sansa found a seat by herself and leaned her forehead against the cool glass window. The train ran along the Seine at first, and then out into the city’s outskirts, cobblestone streets turning into apartment buildings and lawns and business parks, the places where real people lived and worked and loved. She wondered if she could stay here forever, find a small apartment and adopt a French stray and swear off men entirely.

She regretted the way that she had handled the conversation with Sandor yesterday. She’d been so quick to walk away, sure he was rejecting her. But he probably hadn’t been, and even if he had, she wished she hadn’t let it bother her. He was right, in a way — she’d come to Paris to be alone, and he had been getting in the way of that at nearly every turn. She couldn’t hold it against him for trying to respect her wishes: he probably had no idea how much she had started to enjoy his company. Knowing what she’d learned about him in just a few short days, she doubted that he would have the confidence to believe her.

It felt like a decent hour by the time she got off the train, and Sansa tossed her empty coffee cup before leaving the train station. A crowd had formed at the platform, commuters about to retrace her journey on their ways to work, and she slipped past them onto the street.

Versailles was a fifteen-minute walk from the train station, and Sansa took her time, strolling past travel agencies and churches, following the flow of the crowd of other tourists that solidified with each block. By noon, she’d heard that the chateau would be packed with tourists, who would wait in a long line for hours to get in. After the line for the Louvre, she was glad she had woken early, although she had ended up enjoying that time in line yesterday after all. But no Sandor today, and no line either. She approached the massive castle over enormous cobblestones, and joined a line so short that she could already peek inside from her place in the back.

Sansa had to submit her purse to the security guard and pass through a metal detector, and anxiety filled her throat for the two minutes it took to get the Chanel bag back. She quickly put it back over her shoulder, picked up an audio tour set, and began to wander through the dreamiest place that she had ever been.

If the rest of Sansa’s family made fun of her for being a little too into beautiful things, they had surely never seen what royalty could do. The sheer amount of golden filigree and precious objects was staggering, each room adorned like a jewelry box from the vaulted and painted ceilings to the inlaid wood and marble geometry of the floors. 

She passed through hallways and drawing rooms and canopied bedrooms, galleries and chapels and the enchanting Hall of Mirrors. She saw herself reflected a hundred hundred times, eerie and elegant and just about the woman she wanted to be. Very nearly.

Walking the grounds of the grand and petit trianon put the blissful cherry on top of a happy day spent wandering and learning from a pre-recorded voice. She must have looked pretty silly in her luxurious clothing and oversized plastic headset, but she didn’t mind. She turned then in before she hit the gardens, and spent the rest of the afternoon wandering.

It was all too easy to imagine herself back in time, skirts trailing behind her as she lived the life of a once-upon-a-time princess. It was the life she’d imagined up for herself as a little girl, all palaces and ballgowns and not a single problem to be seen.

The reality had been so much different. She was almost ashamed of herself now, living in a dream while her boyfriend became a monster in front of her eyes, too slowly to be truly seen. Floating through fantasies, hardly noticing Sandor beside her the entire time. Well, she’d noticed him now, for all the good it did her.

Sansa sat in the gardens for a while, on the side of an enormous fountain, watching the swans. She had taken photos all throughout the day, but now she wished she could draw. Wished she had her notebook, wished she could see Sandor to get it back.

Wished she could see Sandor at all.

She did enjoy being alone here. But the chance to spend time with him seemed like it was already ending. They hadn’t left things in the best way, and there was hardly any time to recover. She’d been in Paris for three whole days, more if she counted the night of checking into the hotel and falling into bed. That was almost half her trip over, and the way she wanted to spend it had changed so much.

Sansa asked a stranger to take her photo in the gardens, then began the long journey back to the hotel. It was barely after lunchtime, but she was exhausted from so much walking and dreaming. She collapsed into her bed a few hours later, happy not to see Sandor in the hotel lobby, and fell into a restless sleep.

She woke up in the late afternoon starving, and pulled her hair into a ponytail and stepped into low boots and a comfy sweater set that felt like pajamas. She’d passed a bicycle rental place several times on the way to morning coffee, and it only took a few moments before she was wheeling out her own gleaming bike. 

If she couldn’t escape her thoughts, she’d at least to move a little faster. Biking through the city was a little scary, but it was thrilling to whirl past the sights she’d come so far to see. She biked for several hours in a huge and beautiful look, past Opéra Garnier, Notre-Dame, and all the way over to the Arc de Triomphe. She took her helmet off there, tilted half-off the sidewalk to peer up at its majestic arch. There was another long, wide avenue of clothing stores along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées behind her, but she was getting hungry, so she turned around and went back.

On the way, she kept her eyes peeled for Sandor, but he was nowhere to be seen. For some reason now it seemed like he should be sitting at every café table she passed, or waiting to cross each street with a newspaper tucked under his arm. She wondered what he was doing. If he was thinking of her. She wondered why she cared so much, but not for long. After all, she had a guess as to the answer.

Sansa was exhausted again when she returned the bike, and she slipped into the hotel restaurant for an enormous salade niçoise and some swordfish at the hotel restaurant. Suddenly it didn’t feel so fun and indulgent to eat dinner alone, and she kept glancing at the empty chair across the table as though someone would appear to fill it.

Someone big, and scarred, and sparklingly sarcastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s Versailles outfit:  
> Dress: [Georgia Alice satin slip](https://www.net-a-porter.com/us/en/product/1109264)  
> Necklace: [Kendra Scott Elisa](https://www.revolve.com/kendra-scott-elisa-necklace/dp/KEST-WL3/?d=Womens&page=1&lc=70&itrownum=24&itcurrpage=1&itview=01)  
> Coat: [Maxmara wool peacoat](https://www.ssense.com/en-us/women/product/max-mara/beige-manuela-icon-coat/4687351)  
> Purse: [Chanel classic flap clair GHW](https://stockx.com/chanel-classic-double-flap-quilted-medium-beige-clair-caviar)  
> Sneakers: [White Vejas](https://www.veja-store.com/en/v-10/1492-v-10-extra-white.html)
> 
> Sansa’s biking outfit:  
> Ponytail holder: [Jennifer Behr pearl wrap](https://www.jenniferbehr.com/ponywraps/henley-pony-wrap.html)  
> Sweater set: [Staud vest](https://staud.clothing/products/jo-vest-mocha?variant=23533657489489) and [pants](https://staud.clothing/collections/sets/products/mitchell-pant-mocha?variant=23533780992081)  
> Boots: [By Far Sofia in nude](https://www.byfar.com/collections/boots/products/sofia-nude-leather?variant=8088076058670)  
> Bike: [XDS E-Conic rose gold](https://portcitycycles.com.au/electric-bikes/xds-e-conic-retro-ebike-mint-ctcfj-tgjck)
> 
> See them on my [Tumblr](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/190522248121/well-always-have-paris-chapter-11-fashion)!


	12. Chapter 12

The next day Sansa slept in, having stayed up late in bed to self-pityingly eat the Ladurée macarons that she had bought for Margaery and watch An American in Paris, subtitles and all.

She was in the middle of a dream, where big arms plucked her up and up into the sky, clouds dancing around the moon as they danced in circles above the city of love, when a knock came at her door. Still half-convinced she was dreaming, she slid her feet into the cuddly hotel slippers and pulled the matching plush white robe over her silky lavender pajamas. 

Opening the door revealed Sandor in his jogging clothes, which was no surprise, as she was pretty sure she’d just been dreaming about him, and it wasn’t until he held up her sketchbook that she realized she was awake. She blushed immediately, pulling her robe shut even though she was covered up in her tank and shorts.

“Good morning,” Sandor rumbled, sounding hesitant. He seemed to be aware that she was embarrassed, half at how they had left things and half at how much of her legs had just been covered up. “I think you left this on the bench the other day. I was looking for you at the hotel restaurant during breakfast but didn’t see you.”

“Oh, I slept in,” she said, still feeling slow and stupid, though that much must have been obvious. His face was so familiar to her, so much more dear than she’d ever realized, and suddenly she knew she didn’t want him to go away again. “Did I miss breakfast? Did you eat?”

“Yes and no,” he answered, leaning against the door once she took the notebook from him. She pressed it against her chest and he crossed his arms across his, filling her doorway nearly completely. “I could eat, if you’re hungry. No pressure though.”

Sansa wished he wasn’t so hesitant to ask, but he was just respecting her stated desire to have a solo trip. How could he know what a change of heart she’d had already, slowly and in secret, so that she was hardly realizing herself how much her desires had changed?

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, glancing down. She was still underdressed, but suddenly starving, and the idea of hopping into the shower sounded like too much work before a cup of coffee.

“Stay right here,” he decided, and disappeared down the hall. Sansa frowned after him, then flipped the door latch backward to keep the door open for him. Then she ran to the bathroom, where she was relieved to see that she had remembered to wash her face the night before. She combed her fingers through her hair quickly, afraid to primp too much lest he notice, but she managed to pinch her cheeks and brush her teeth by the time he knocked on the door again.

“Come in!” she called, popping back out of the bathroom to find that Sandor had returned in his own pajamas, a sweatsuit with trademark lines that she recognized immediately. He’d paired them with his own hotel robe, and the combination made her laugh. “We match!”

“Room service?” Sandor suggested, climbing up into her unmade bed without an invitation. She tried not to gape at him, and hurried to the bed instead, shoving her notebook and slippers to the side to sit across from him. The morning light was warm and bright across the white and gold details of her hotel room, and he pulled the phone and menu off of her side table and into the space between them.

She felt shy, sitting in bed with Sandor, but he treated it like a totally normal, if more amusing, breakfast. Together they picked out a fruit plate and a carafe of coffee, an omelette for Sandor and a parfait for Sansa, and he ordered for them in rapid-fire French.

They watched TV as they waited — or at least, Sansa tried to watch TV, but she was more focused on what Sandor smelled like next to her, the way his presence seemed to fill the room and take up all the air in her chest.

Room service came blessedly quickly, and Sandor winked at her when the waiter rolled in a tray of not just their breakfasts, but a matching set of long-stemmed mimosas, as well.

Eating breakfast together felt natural by now, and no longer like the days they were only paired together to wait for Joffrey to arrive. Sansa filled him in on her day at Versailles, and Sandor told her about his visit to the Musée de l'Armée. He was especially taken with the cannons on display, and Sansa dutifully listened to his descriptions of them, especially since he’d asked plenty of questions when she’d gushed over Marie Antoinette’s bedroom. 

“What are you going to do today?” Sandor asked finally, over the last dregs of champagne. There was a crumb of toast on his knee: she fought the urge to brush it off.

“I don’t know,” she mused, picking at her slippers instead. “I thought I would relax and maybe hit the hotel spa, but I feel pretty restless, actually.”

“Come with me,” he suggested immediately. “I mean, if you want to.”

“What are you doing today?” Sansa asked, although she already knew she wanted to agree, no matter what was on his agenda. A day with Sandor was exactly what she wanted, and she was thrilled to have been asked — she smiled at him so there wouldn’t be any doubt.

He smiled back. His smile was like a break in the clouds, like a blooming flower in the stoney face of a cliff. “Meet me in the lobby in an hour,” he said, instead of replying, and her smile turned into a grin.

“You’re not going to tell me?” she asked, and he shook his head, his hair slipping out of its holder to whip against his cheek. This time she fought not to tuck it back.

“It’s a surprise. By which I mean, I only have ten percent of a plan. Do you always need an itinerary?”

“Nope,” Sansa decided, although typically she always had one. Somehow winging it with Sandor sounded like a lot more fun. “I’m in.”

“Great.” Sandor stood and plucked up the remains of his mimosa, tipping it down his long, stubbled throat to make quick work of the rest. “I’ll see you down there, little bird.”

“I’m not a— see you there, you moose!” Sansa laughed when he flipped her off before slamming the door behind him, leaving her with the mess they’d made of her bed. She glanced at the remains of their shared breakfast, sighed, and hopped out of bed to take a shower.

Sansa blew her hair out quickly, wearing black cotton lingerie and her favorite tights, before she dabbed on a light brown smokey eye and pulled out her favorite Margaery-approved outfit for the week. She had decided to lean into her French vanilla fantasies and pulled on a fitted overall dress atop a romantic, beribboned blouse. And, as an unrepentant tourist, she popped a fuzzy beret on to complete the picture. Authentic or not, she looked adorable when she looked in the mirror, and that gave her the confidence to spritz on some perfume and go downstairs and meet Sandor.

In the elevator, Sansa gave herself a once-over in the mirror, and smiled at what she saw. Her hair sat in thick almost-waves, her eyeshadow felt subtly sexy, and her dress was just on the right side of short. She liked the way she felt, right up until the elevator doors opened and her mood changed sharply for the worse.

Sandor was leaning on the concierge desk at the front of the lobby, laughing along with the girl running check-ins. She was gamine and beautiful, pulling off bangs where Sansa never could, petite and adorable but worse of all not in the least bit fazed by Sandor’s face or size. His body overwhelmed the countertop between them, and in a heartbeat she could picture how snugly she would fit up against Sandor, how he could lift her up into the air like plucking a flower. One night stands were easy, were they? Suddenly she could see how, and how a stranger with no shared history might be the safer, simpler, choice. 

The woman was definitely flirting back, and he sure was smiling a lot, and pure jealousy spiked up in Sansa’s chest like something awful. It surprised her, but it also infused her with a burst of energy that she didn’t know she was capable of — much like the moment she’d found herself flinging bernaise sauce on Joffrey’s stupid face. 

She fought the urge to stomp up, and stalked over instead, taking long strides across the marble.

“Are you ready to go, Sandor?” She kept her tone chirpy and her eyes wide and innocent. “I can’t wait to see what you have planned for us!” Sandor gave her a funny look, but she swanned up to his side, glancing over at the unlucky concierge in a false camaraderie. “I’m so sorry,” Sansa said to her. “Was he boring you long?”

“No, of course not,” the girl said in good grace, straightening up in her chair and glossing over any awkwardness with good customer service. “Will that be all, sir, madame?” Sandor openly rolled his eyes and pushed away from the counter, letting her catch up to him as he strode for the door.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she lied, keeping up with him after a pause to hide her small smile.

“Forgive me for not, what was it - ‘shutting down like a robot’ while you took a hundred years to get ready,” Sandor said, recovered gracefully enough to tease her now, damn him. 

“Hilarious.” It was a sunny, just-warm-enough day outside, and Sansa stopped at the cab stand on the sidewalk. Sandor kept walking, though, and this time she really had to hurry to catch up. “Where are you going?”

“Métro,” Sandor answered, turning around to walk backwards with his hands in the pockets of the flannel he wore atop a soft-looking sweater. People streamed around him without complaint, nearly scattering away from the size and the looks of him. She could see why he walked with such confidence now, could see how it would do the opposite for a child. No wonder he’d worked to learn new languages, to make his body strong, to align himself with wealthy and powerful people, all the things he’d likely believed would be the path away from his lonely childhood. He wore the deference of others easily now, but his life still sounded lonely. “Don’t tell me you’re too good for the metro.”

Sansa took a break from tending the spark in her heart to be annoyed by him again. She’d taken the metro the day before, just fine, but instead of protesting she said “Maybe I am, maybe you should have brought the girl from the front desk instead. I’m sure you could have picked her up, the poor thing.”

Sandor snorted. “I can pick anyone up.”

“Prove it,” she dared, heart racing, and his eyes snapped to hers before he grinned and reached for her, and Sansa couldn’t believe it was happening this fast, but then he snatched her off of the ground and threw her over his shoulder, one giant hand securing her at the waist like she was a cord of wood. “Sandor!”

“I can pick anyone up,” Sandor repeated. She could hear the grin without seeing it, and when he spun around to take her down the stairs to the metro, Sansa smacked his brick wall of a shoulder with each step.

Sandor put her down at the bottom of the stairs and proceeded to the ticket booth as though nothing had happened, not even winded, while Sansa tugged on her skirt and tried to sort out whether she was mad or just flustered.

The metro ride was blessedly short, and Sansa spent it peeking around at the commuters. She’d always imagined that Parisians would be perfect and beautiful at every turn, but these just looked like tired locals. It was kind of nice. It made her feel like this was a real place, a place she might live one day, or capture the same feeling of once she was home again. 

Sandor pulled her coat into his lap without comment, holding it off of the floor as the train jostled and sped. She put her purse on top of the pile in his lap to stretch, and he tucked the strap in carefully.

“I like your bag,” he said, petting it, and Sansa was torn between smacking his hand away and beaming with pride.

“Thanks,” she managed, fighting both her smile and her protective urges. “I like your beard.” It had grown in more than she’d ever seen while he was working, fighting its way from stubble to full prominence on his face. It hid a fair number of his scars, but not entirely, and they peered out like shining little stripes across his lip and cheekbone.

“Oh, this old thing,” he rumbled, stroking it dramatically to make her laugh. She wanted to rub her face against it, but instead she cleared her throat and checked the map.

“Are we there yet?” she teased, digging an elbow into his side a little to feel the slab of obliques there.

“This is our stop,” he confirmed, to her surprise, and when the train stopped he tugged her to her feet and past all of the dozing commuters.

“Where are we?” she asked, following him through the streaming crowds that parted for his bulk and his scars here as well.

“Montemarte,” Sandor announced, along with the street sign that came into view as they spilled up and out onto the sidewalk and into a bright, beautiful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s PJs:  
> [lavender Lunya silk set](https://www.lunya.co/collections/all/products/washable-silk-set?variant=31451787591723)
> 
> Sandor’s PJs:  
> [Thom Browne engineered 4 bar sweatpants](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/men/thom-browne-engineered-4-bar-jersey-sweatpant-item-12218050.aspx) and [zip up](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/men/thom-browne-4-bar-zip-up-cashmere-hoodie-item-11512488.aspx)
> 
> Sansa’s outfit:  
> Blouse: [For Love & Lemons Belle Blouse](https://www.revolve.com/for-love-lemons-belle-blouse/dp/FORL-WS179/)  
> Dress: [For Love & Lemons Madeline Overall Dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/78883430957748337/)  
> Tights: [Gucci interlocking G tights](https://www.gucci.com/us/en/pr/women/accessories-for-women/socks-and-tights-for-women/interlocking-g-tights-p-4657273G2451000)  
> Shoes: [Free People Remi platforms](https://www.freepeople.com/shop/wythe-platform/?adpos=&color=001&countryCode=US&creative=191054363441&device=c&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIq9Wb6r6p5wIVIB6tBh18jwSREAQYAiABEgIJp_D_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds&inventoryCountry=US&matchtype=&mrkgadid=3202411973&mrkgcl=720&network=g&product_id=52499373&size=EU%2037&utm_content=Shoes&utm_term=52499373)  
> Hat: [Lauren Manoogian beret](https://www.ssense.com/en-us/women/product/lauren-manoogian/ssense-exclusive-black-alpaca-beret/4038361)  
> Undies: [Thirdlove cotton bra](https://www.thirdlove.com/products/pima-cotton-wireless-bra-black) and [panties](https://www.thirdlove.com/products/cotton-hipster-black)  
> Earrings: [Mejuri croissant hoops](https://mejuri.com/shop/products/croissant-dome-hoops)  
> Perfume: [Kayali vanilla](https://www.shophudabeauty.com/us/en_US/kayali-vanilla-28-KY00003.html%22)  
> Bag: [Chanel classic flap clair GHW](https://stockx.com/chanel-classic-double-flap-quilted-medium-beige-clair-caviar?utm_source=af&utm_medium=imp&utm_campaign=57486&impactSiteId=Q0-ztfwoQxyOWEvwUx0Mo34GUknQRoXL0REWVA0&clickid=Q0-ztfwoQxyOWEvwUx0Mo34GUknQRoXL0REWVA0&irgwc=1)
> 
> Sandor’s outfit: 
> 
> Shirt: [Folk flannel overshirt](https://www.mrporter.com/en-us/mens/product/folk/clothing/lightweight-waterproof-jackets/checked-faux-shearling-lined-cotton-flannel-overshirt/12938511207210189)  
> Sweater: [Loro Piana ribbed cashmere](https://www.mrporter.com/en-us/mens/product/loro-piana/clothing/rollnecks/ribbed-baby-cashmere-mock-neck-sweater/9679066508504532)  
> Jeans: [Sid Mashburn selvedge](https://www.mrporter.com/en-us/mens/product/sid-mashburn/clothing/slim-jeans/slim-fit-selvedge-denim-jeans/11813139151229143)  
> Boots: R.M. Williams brown chelsea boots   
> Tee: white James Perse tee  
> Sunglasses: [Tom Ford Beau sunglasses](https://www.bloomingdales.com/shop/product/tom-ford-mens-beau-square-sunglasses-53mm?ID=3137219&pla_country=US&CAWELAID=120156070009839457&cm_mmc=Google-PLA-ADC-_-GS_Local_Only_tROAS-_-All_Products-_-750666122249&gclid=EAIaIQobChMI07G-i8Op5wIVdB6tBh0I5gLJEAQYASABEgLT0fD_BwE)
> 
> See the fashion [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/190684018051/well-always-have-paris-chapter-12-fashion-sansas)!


	13. Chapter 13

Montmartre was a warren of cobblestones and narrow streets, like a miniature version of Paris folded in on itself, wrapping itself up into a steep layer cake of ribboned roads. Every angle looked like a piece of art, and probably was — artists were clustered into impromptu street galleries, selling their paintings between squinting at the ones that were blooming from their brushes. 

Sacré-Cœur sat atop it all, like a domed confection on top of a Christmas tree. She could see the endless stairs to the top from where they had begun their walk, streets below, and she already knew that her feet would be angry later.

“What should we do first?” Sansa asked, assuming Sandor had been to this neighborhood before, but he just shrugged.

“Wander upward, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never made it over here. Like I said, I’ve only been for work.”

“How did you get into your line of work, anyway?” It seemed like he could do so much more. Sandor shrugged again. There were streams of locals and other tourists filtering all around them, but she felt like they were alone in their own world.

“I wanted to get out of my house as a kid, go as far away as I could go. I got interested in other languages thinking I could be a translator, but I didn’t really have the degrees to qualify. But I was big, and I had taught myself enough to get by, and I found a contract in the security industry that turned into more work once I built up a good reputation. I worked with the embassy for a few years, and then I got sick of always being on the move. The Baratheon gig was easy and too good to turn down, and I thought it would let me build something in the meantime. A house, maybe a girlfriend. Stick around somewhere for a while.”

“How did that work out?” Sansa’s heart was in her throat. She’d never heard anything much about Sandor’s life outside of work, and the face he made in response told her the answer as to why.

“It didn’t.” They walked past a bakery, a thrift store, and a trinket-laden shop for tourists. Someone was actually playing an accordian, and she could hear its straining notes between the rush of cars that passed them and the murmurs of people. The sidewalk beneath them had begun to slope unavoidably upward. “Obviously.”

He didn’t seem inclined to say more, and Sansa left it alone, not wanting to ruin the way they were getting along again. There had to be something more, something he didn’t want to talk about, but it could keep. She’d waited so long to get to know him that she didn’t blame him for wanting to share on his own timeline.

They a quick bite at a food stand, Sandor ordering a grilled cheese with raclette and Sansa deciding that a cone full of fries was a valid lunch choice. She fed him a fry, feeling daring, and then had to find a public restroom to wash her hands before they could continue their journey. She made eye contact with herself in the mirror before going back outside — willing herself to be brave, and to relax, and to enjoy the day without overthinking the Sandor of it all. When she emerged back outside, he was feeding the rest of his crust to a cluster of eager pigeons, and a traitorous flutter rose in her chest again at once. _Hopeless._ Her burgeoning crush was no longer deniable, and she adjusted her self-expectation to just not embarrassing herself in front of him. Gods knew he probably didn’t feel the same way.

They came upon an enormous carousel at the base of the wide staircase, with a line of children and their patient parents waiting outside. People took photos of their loved ones as they circled around, then waited, then lifted their cameras again in infinite loops. The carousel horses were colorful, ancient things, spinning around in an inexorable and slow-moving whirlwind of glossy wood and tinkling music. 

Sansa had the urge to ride it, but one look at the line made her change her mind. She’d had enough of lines for that week, even if Sandor had somehow made the last one much more tolerable. As she slowed to take in the carved manes, Sandor stopped in front of a busker, who had a game of three-card monte set up around a quiet corner. The man was moving cards face-down, inviting passers-by to pick the queen out of a rotating trio. Sandor watched for a moment, then acquiesced to the invitation of the dealer, chatting quickly with him in his rumbling French. Sansa hung back a bit and watched him lose the first round, handing over a bill good-naturedly, before his grin slipped free and he won the next two rounds in a row, handily pocketing his money back and tossing the rest to the accordion player. Sansa caught up with him as he turned away, harboring a sneaking suspicion that he’d thrown the first game, and they headed up the stairs.

Sacré-Cœur was a steep climb, and they talked minimally as they made their way up the hill, but Sansa noticed that Sandor never ran out of breath. It was interesting to see him go back to his normal stoic self, knowing now how much reflection his peacefulness was hiding. It was easier to read, now that she knew, the thoughtful nature of his silence.

There were three hundred steps to the top of the cathedral. When they started walking, they kept a careful distance, but as they continued to the top, the crowds started to press closer and closer, threatening to move between them. By the time they were halfway up, they were walking much closer, and by the time they reached the top — Sansa hating her shoe choice with a passion — they were shoulder to shoulder, their arms pressed together.

At the top of the hill, Sansa turned, and the view below took her breath away. She could see every detail of the city stretched out before her — the boulevards lined with monuments and trees, the rooftops of ancient buildings and skyscrapers alike. A hundred thousand moving dots represented people, cars, the beating life of a city that sent a wave of something powerful up through her to catch in her throat. Yes, there was the Eiffel Tower, but there was also La Défense, the Montparnasse Tower, the Panthéon, the Bois de Vincennes, the Buttes-Chaumont and the city of Saint-Denis.. In the distance, she could make out the Opéra Garnier and the Sainte-Clotilde Basilica and Saint-François Xavier Church, each dome and tower like something out of a dream, only more complex and detailed than she ever could have imagined in her mind.

Sandor, beside her, nudged her with his elbow. “Worth the stairs?”

“Well worth them,” she agreed, glancing up to share a smile with him. His was smaller and more hesitant, but then he grinned, his expression shifting into mischievous.

“So I was right not to tell you about the funicular?” He nodded at a small, sharply-angled elevator that Sansa only then noticed climbing up the hill.

“Sandor!” She wanted to scream, but laughed instead. “You’re wearing the heels next time.”

“I can always carry you again,” he offered, and this time she considered taking him up on it.

Up close, the basilica was bigger and more beautiful than it had appeared from down below. The architecture made her feel tiny and awed, each romano-byzantine dome, the white stone sheltering street artists and exhausted tourists who had just scaled the stairs beside them.

As they approached the enormous, ornate bronze doors, sonorous church bells rang out, and the doors opened. Dozens of well-dressed people spilled out, shouting and celebrating, leaving a space for the bride and groom trailing out behind them, hand-in hand. Sandor and Sansa quickly changed direction, letting them pass from a patch of shady grass where they could peek inside at the church’s gorgeous interior, and also observe the small procession in front of them. The bride, a curvaceous brunette with long, wavy hair, clutched elaborate flowers and the hand of her groom, a tall and bearded man who looked like a more French version of Sandor. Sansa’s heart tangled up a bit: she wanted that, not just the wedding, but the happiness that was writ so clearly across their faces.

“How lovely,” she murmured, almost to herself, as the group of well-wishers began their journey up the cobblestones and into waiting black taxis. She thought she’d never forget the sighting of such elegance and happiness, perfectly combined in the most beautiful place she’d ever been.

“Eh,” Sandor said in return, and she rolled her eyes at him, brought suddenly back to earth.

“Eh? I’m sorry, wedding expert, what was wrong with it?” She wanted to draw the wedding dress right away: its fitted bodice and frothy skirt, its slight train and its floral trimmings.

“The church part,” Sandor said, surprising her — although she didn’t know what she’d expected, caught between knowing and not knowing him as she was. “I’d get married in the woods.”

“The woods?” Sansa tried to picture it, and found the idea equally as charming. “Like, barefoot under some trees?”

“Exactly.” Sandor snapped his fingers together and then pointed at her. “Nature. No strangers walking by. Maybe a bear shows up.”

“And that’s a positive?” She laughed, and he laughed, too. “I’m not sure if my great-grandma could make it out to the woods.”

“And she could make it up these stairs?”

They squabbled comfortably down the street, until they’d agreed that a wedding in an _accessible_ park area with trees would be ideal, although somewhere along the line Sansa wondered how (and why) they’d begun debating the merits of a wedding that both of them could agree on.

They got lost along a narrow, cobblestoned street, passing piano bars and souvenir shops and outdoor cafes. Sansa stopped suddenly and laughed: a Starbucks sat, surprisingly perched, between the more authentic storefronts. “No way.”

“Looks like it followed you,” Sandor agreed, following her gaze to the familiar green canvas canopy. “Do you want to go in?”

“I would love a chai, but I couldn’t.” She hesitated, glancing guiltily back down at the cafes they had passed. She could hear Joffrey’s voice in her head clear as day, mocking her taste for being basic or low-class or simply ignorant... but Joffrey wasn’t here. She glanced at Sandor. “You don’t think it’s totally cheating, or stupid or anything?”

“If you like it, you like it,” he rumbled. “Nothing stupid about that.”

Emboldened, Sansa popped in to order herself the familiar drink she’d been missing, and picked up a coffee for Sandor as well. He was standing outside of the Starbucks when she emerged, automatically guarding the door until she exited, and took his cup with a nod of thanks.

They started shuffling down the street again, Sansa’s eyes near-closed in bliss at the familiar warmth, when Sandor cleared his throat. “This girl has Starbucks!” he shouted, not as loudly as he could have, but certainly loud enough to be embarrassing. “She’s drinking Starbucks in Paris!” 

Sansa laughed and yanked at his arm, where he was traitorously holding his own cup aloft, and his eyes were warm and sparkling when she tugged him back into silence. “You’re the worst.”

“No one seems to be rioting,” he shrugged. “Let me see if it’s worth it.” They swapped cups and he took a sip from hers, declared it too sweet, and handed it back over.

Sansa was content to wander with Sandor and her latte, but the cobblestones were murder on her sore feet, and she tripped trying to follow him up a curb.

“Ow, sorry,” she said quickly, and tried to keep up, but he stopped in place and then kneeled.

“Can I?” He reached out, and she was baffled for a moment, but then let him take her foot into his hands, putting her hand on his enormous shoulder for balance. His thumb and pointer fingers encircled her ankle easily, and he tilted it back and forth, looking between his hands and her face. She was intensely aware of how close he was to the bottom of her dress. “Does this hurt? You didn’t roll it, did you?”

“Um.” She was having trouble focusing, if she were honest, even though her foot did hurt. “No, I think I just wore the wrong shoes.”

“You sure did.” He straightened up, and she let go of him reluctantly. Her ankle felt hot where he had touched it, the skin burning like she thought her cheeks were. “Okay, I’m going to have to insist your outfit get a lot less cute.” 

She laughed — she was laughing a lot, that day — and they went into the next small shop that sold clothing, where Sandor stood firm on buying her a pair of cheap ballet flats and a shopping bag to carry her heels. The store was small and cramped and cute, smelling like leather and piled with boxes in tightly-packed aisles.

“It’s equally as cute,” Sansa decided, taking in her new outfit in the mirror as Sandor settled the tab. He nodded, amused, as she spun around in the store. He’d certainly guarded her during a shopping trip before, but having him come into the shop was a new experience: his head nearly grazed the ceiling of the lowslung shop, and the small man working the register seemed torn between happiness at the sale and unease at the size of Sandor, as though he could knock over an entire row of shoes with one wrong move. He waved them off happily enough once he’d been paid, and Sandor made sure to duck under a display of socks as he exited.

Walking in the flats was a marvel, re-energizing her for their day as they wandered slowly downhill again and through the town. The sun had come out, and wisps of cloud moved quickly through the blue sky above them. The sounds of the streets changed as they walked, from the buzz of people to the quieter streets where she just heard their footsteps, the chatter of storekeepers and the changing radio stations that spilled new music out of every door.

“I could walk for miles now,” Sansa said happily, wiggling her toes as he peered into an antique shop with a window display that features old books and a wooden cannon. She felt bolder now, more relaxed with him, and it was a comforting feeling. So she felt safe saying “Do you want to keep hanging out? I don’t have plans for the afternoon.”

It came as a happy surprise, then, when he turned to her, the weight of his full attention something physical. They’d paused under an awning of sun-bleached stripes, and a fat grey cat sat in the doorway of the dépanneur next door. “Me either,” he said. She could practically feel the vibration of his voice in the air between them. “Come have dinner with me.”

Sansa lit up — she couldn’t help it. “It’s too early for dinner,” she teased lightly, instead of answering properly.

“It won’t be if you hang out with me long enough,” he pointed out, and she grinned even wider, if possible. He seemed to be reflecting it back, in the softening of his features, the glimpse of white teeth she could spot behind his scarred lip.

“You make a good point,” Sansa agreed, and caught a flash of a true smile on his face before he kept walking down the street.

She ran to catch up.


	14. Chapter 14

Sandor announced that he wanted a change of scenery, and hailed a taxi to whirl them away again. Addicted again to the changing view of the city outside her window, Sansa pointed things out that caught her eye, and Sandor craned his neck to follow her finger. The taxi wound through wider streets before squeezing into small ones again, and it left them at the corner of a warren of ancient buildings that made the neighborhood they’d just been in look like Disneyland. This was more real, more rugged, yet somehow equally more luxurious. This was ancient and fresh, gentrified and buzzing with underground energy.

This was Marais.

It was still too early for dinner, so they walked a ways, Sandor pointing out the bullet holes in the deli walls as they passed by historic sites in the Jewish quarter. The sun was getting richer in the sky as the afternoon slid away, bouncing off faded early 17th-century brick along the Place des Vosges.

This neighborhood felt electric in a thrilling new way, with a well-worn energy that made Sansa feel alive and almost fearless. There were designer shops on random corners, framed by dark alleys with postage stamp-sized gyro shops and sake bars.

They ducked under green iron gates and into the Marché des Enfants Rouges, an ancient covered market with stalls of every type of food imaginable. Jumbles of peppers and snap peas sat in boxes on haphazard display, marbled meat sat behind glass walls, and impromptu seating areas were set up in the space between wine and cheese shops.

“This has been here since the 1600s,” Sandor told her, and looking around, Sansa could believe it. It hadn’t been modernized as much as the trendy food halls by her offices, and she could imagine ancient Parisians coming here to collect their groceries in much the same way. She sampled some grapes and a spoonful of couscous, and Sandor made serious eyes at a ham the size of his head. Ultimately they left the food behind, though, and kept wandering out past the back stalls and into the streets. 

“Oh, I wanted to go in here,” she said, a few blocks down the Rue de Bretagne. “I follow them on Instagram.”

“But do they follow you back?” Sandor asked, nonsensically, and led the way into Merci. Clothes and housewares and trendy notebooks packed the enormous boutique, but Sansa only had eyes for the Used Book Café inside. An enormous bookshelf covered the wall from floor to ceiling, with well-worn red rugs lining the reading area that ran alongside the shelves.

“It’s so beautiful,” Sansa said happily, lifting her arms up and taking a deep breath of paper and wood.

“Sure is,” he agreed, hands in his pockets, although she almost thought he was looking at her. “Do you need a book?”

“Normally I would bring one on a trip like this, but I haven’t spent as much time in the hotel room as I thought I would,” she shrugged. They started to head out, keeping close to continue the conversaton as they ducked back outside.

“How much time did you think you would be spending in your hotel room?” he asked, amused, and she had to laugh when she realized how it sounded. Hopefully nobody on the sidewalk around them spoke English, or was even listening.

“I meant in bed or the bath or something, gods. We’re not all one-night-stand types like you.”

“I never said it was what I preferred,” Sandor complained, his deep voice hard to hear under the bus screeching beside them. “Just that it was easy. More than one night, though…”

“Surely it isn’t difficult for you,” Sansa blurted out, without thinking. He was so strong and so witty, so self-assured and so fascinating. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, but when he stopped beside her (and when had she stopped in her tracks to just look at him?), he didn’t seem so self-assured anymore. He had every reason to be confident, she thought, but his face was anything but. It was hard and grim, at least in his eyes and the set of his jaw, the flare of his nose. But there was a flicker of something soft and surprised at the corner of his mouth, and she focused on that instead of the people streaming around them.

She’d forgotten his scars.

There they were, at the corner of the mouth she’d been staring at, blurring the edge of his strong jaw. But she’d forgotten, not that they were there, but that they were supposed to be bad. That they acted as a shield against the outside world, had shaped him stronger and lonelier on the other side.

His gaze on her was more intense than any look he’d given her before. Despite what a silly conversation they'd been having, how light and flirtatious, it felt like he was _really_ looking at her, _seeing_ her in a way that felt almost uncomfortably intimate.

“Sansa—”

“Is that another bookstore?” she asked, desperate to change the subject suddenly. It felt like she had stumbled on something too raw to touch, and she didn’t want him to have to tell her about a lifetime of rejection.

He licked the scarred corner of his lip and turned to follow her gaze. They were outside of La Belle Hortense, a blue-paned storefront between a gelato shop and a Lacoste. Books lined the windows, but Sandor raised his eyebrows at the sign. “It’s a bookstore and a bar. Did you want to go in?”

“Sounds great,” she said, relieved. Surely a drink would shift the conversation toward something more positive. “Let’s check it out.”

They ducked in, and inside was a dream. Books lined every wall, with a charming little wine bar that boasted its own small library of bottles. Sansa dropped down at a table with an abandoned collection of Neruda poetry, and Sandor returned with a bottle of Languedoc red.

“Have you read this?” she asked, flipping the book upright, and he paused in the middle of bottle-opening to page through it. She took over, popping the cork out with more trouble than he’d had, and poured into the empty glasses he’d brought with him.

“ _How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me_ ,” he read out loud, eyebrows up again. “ _My savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running…_ ” He skimmed silently for a moment, and then smirked as he reached the end of the page. “ _I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees._ ”

Sansa shivered, and then tried to cover it up. “That’s a dirty one.”

“Is that your interpretation?” he asked mildly, and slid the book back. She rolled her eyes and handed him his wine and they tilted their glasses into each other's, the clink hard to hear over the buzz of other voices. It was a small, cozy place, and she got caught up in reading, so she only looked up when Sandor refilled the glass she hadn’t realized she was finishing.

 _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_ she read to herself. _I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams._

Sansa shut her eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in, and when she glanced up, still moved, it was to see Sandor watching her with a smile. He had picked up another book, and had it open in front of him, but he didn’t seem to be reading it. She smiled back, and he wiggled the empty bottle at her. She hadn’t realized that they had finished it, or how much time had passed, but it was nice to just sit and read together, to let the buzz of people speaking French and the clinking of glassware and the smell of books all merge together into a beautiful backdrop.

“Want another?” he asked, and she shook her head. If they sat and drank in one place, she’d never make it to dinnertime. It was already late afternoon, and she could feel the buzz setting into her blood.

“Let’s go find some food,” she said instead. He nodded, and stopped to buy the slim volume of poetry on the way out.

Tipsy now, she bumped into Sandor as they walked. They passed sushi spots, and a vegan burger joint that smelled delicious, but Sansa loved the vibrant outdoor cafés the most, their sidewalk tables the most welcoming way to sit and take in the people passing by. They stopped at one on a busy corner, with the specials written on a blackboard in beautiful script, and Sandor drew her chair out for her. The sun was getting lower in the sky, making the outdoor table feel more intimate, the buildings rising up around them reflecting light and shadows onto the street.

“Bienvenue au Bourguignon du Marais,” a waiter greeted them, and they ordered a bottle of sparkling water for the table.

“I’m going to order escargot,” Sandor warned her, as she spread her napkin out over her lap. “And you’re going to try it.”

“Snails?” She shivered. “You’re a terrible date.”

“I hope not,” he answered her, and his gaze burned through her stomach, settling at the center of her belly like a falling star. She was grateful for the drinks they’d had, even if he had naturally imbibed more wine than her. She had never felt so attuned to someone before, so tingling and warm with the weight of a look. Their water came, and he ordered the escargot, and then he was lifting his glass again for a non-alcoholic shadow of their earlier toast. “À ta santé.”

“Cheers.” 

The escargot was surprisingly good, all butter and garlic and herbs, a flavor combination that could make just about anything delicious. Sandor ordered the boeuf bourguignon that the restaurant was named for, and she ordered soupe a l’ognion, with plenty of melted Emmental cheese and a petite baguette. 

The sun went down as they ate, a sunset painting the building across from them with blazing light. Sansa described her job — Joffrey had never been interested, but Sandor seemed impressed at the intricacies of sales, inventory plans, margin growth, and the other realities that lurked behind her passion for style and design. He told her of how he’d discovered high-end clothing after a decade of having to have cheap clothes tailored to fit his frame. Now tailoring came included with his purchases, each one pulled for his simple tastes by a polished department store stylist that Joffrey’s uncle had recommended back home. It unlocked that final piece of his appearance, and she complimented his help, but wondered what it would be like to take over for whatever faceless person was dressing him now. She could try colors against the tanned color of his arms, slide ties underneath his collar, smooth fabric across his endless shoulders. She itched to touch him, to be touched by him, and that desire pulled at her as they finished their appetizers, then their dinners, then sat with miniature espressos and an abandoned dessert menu. They had talked until the waiter had to come around and light a fat, twinkling candle.

Sandor was telling her a story about the military, which she learned he had joined on his earliest possible birthday. He’d been so impatient to leave home that he’d arrived a week early and slept in an empty barn, eager to do the hard work of transforming himself into someone unassailable. He’d worked hard, risen up fast, become interested in the cultures away from where he’d grown up. His work sounded glamorous, when he told her about the travels after that, even if he’d hardly had the time to trawl through various bookstores back then.

He even told her about the Baratheons, how he’d been sick of protecting a Joffrey’s drunk father from the consequences of his own actions, and upon trying to quit had been compelled by Cersei’s pitch to protect her family — and to increase his wages.

“So you were ready to quit, then, before Joffrey?” She pushed her hair back, studying him. “Why stick around so long? You didn’t seem to like it.”

Sandor emptied his espresso in one long-throated swallow, peered into the cup, which was tiny and breakable in his hands, and then looked away. He cleared his throat to say something, and then Sansa panicked and interrupted.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, She didn’t want to question him too much, to make him uncomfortable. And after all, she had more to apologize for. “I shouldn’t be nosy, I’m grateful you were around. I— I’m so sorry that you had to quit because of me. Even if you didn’t really want to be there. I wish I had thanked you.”

“Oh.” He looked at her, pleased. “I—No, I’m sorry. You were upset, of course. And I should have… I could have found a better way to warn you. I’d suspected, earlier, more than suspected.” His brow furrowed, his mouth thinning behind his beard. He was mad at himself now, and Sansa was delicate when she asked—

“Why didn’t you?” She bit her lip, then pressed on, wanting to rip the bandage off. “I know that’s unfair, you didn’t owe me anything. But—”

“I owed you decency,” he said, low, his disgust for himself clear and painful to see. “If you hadn’t turned up, I like to think I would have told you. But I was afraid to lose the highest-paid job I’d ever had, the money Cersei gave me felt ridiculous, and I was saving all of it. I come from _nothing_ , Sansa, and I have no one to fall back on but a brother I would rather die than go to for help. Even now, with things stable, some part of me is always looking for a way to survive.” 

“I understand,” she said, so quietly that she wasn’t sure he could hear her until his face relaxed a fraction. “I’m glad things happened the way they did. I think… it’s all been for the best.”

“ _Merci,_ ” he said, put his hand out on the table. She put hers atop it, and he curled his fingers up in a squeeze that was over as soon as it started. “ _Oisillon_.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, ducking her head to cover her blush when the waiter slid a bill onto the table by Sandor’s elbow, resettling her skirts before they stood up again.

He signed the check in a blocky, decisive script, and grinned up at her, his good mood restored. “Little bird.”


	15. Chapter 15

Bar Bisou was tiny and pink and perfect and exactly what Sansa thought that she would be like, if she happened to be a bar.

She had literally gasped when she’d seen it, a window lit from within to a world of floral blooms and gilded white marble. Sandor laughed and tugged her in, where the bartender asked them for three words to describe their ideal cocktails and delivered back two custom-crafted drinks. Sandor’s drink, short and dark in a round glass, was the answer to his request for a Japanese whiskey with the hint of something fresh. He’d ended up with some kind of sideways sidecar with yuzu in it, and she immediately demanded a sip, swapping him for hers. She’d asked for clear liquor with a punch, and the tall, sparkling jalapeño paloma in her hand delivered.

“This is my favorite place in the world,” she declared, after reclaiming hers and making a face – the rim was lined with tajin, and the grapefruit was tart in the best possible way.

“You’ve chosen well,” he answered faux-seriously. The bar was playing 90s Europop, and it matched Sansa’s impossibly happy mood, even if they had to shout into each other’s faces and she had to drink fast to keep her drink from being jostled.

“Are you sure it’s not too pink for you?” She gestured around, as broadly as the crowd would let her. It was early evening still, but the bar was small, and filling up quickly. The rapid-fire French closing in all around them, combined with the way Sansa had to tip her head back to hold Sandor’s eye this close, made her feel like they were alone in their own little bubble of the loud, crowded room.

“Small is manageable,” he said in that assessing way of his, glancing around so she could see his awareness of all four corners of the room, of the space where the restrooms hid, of the front door that opened onto the street. “Can you hear me?”

“What?” Sansa held a straight face, her eyes open and innocent.

“ _Can you—_ ” He started shouting at her, but she broke and laughed, and he laughed with her when he realized she was messing with him. “You impudent little—”

“A little louder,” she teased, and he shook his head and smiled before leaning in.

Sansa may have miscalculated in testing Sandor, because having him lean in to her ear was almost more than she could handle. He cupped his hand to her ear, his short beard tickling the side of her neck, and the sensation of his voice matched the rich warmth of his cologne.

“Can you hear me now?” he murmured, and she had to fight not to shiver. He caught her eye and smirked as he pulled back, and she narrowed her eyes at him. Did he know what he was doing to her? Was he doing it on purpose?

“Another drink?” she asked to deflect, seeing that his glass was nearly empty now. “This one’s on me.”

“Another bar, maybe?” he said hopefully, as another group of post-dinner drinkers crowded into the small space. “I’m sure we can find one.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she laughed, and finished her drink.

Outside, it was nice to have a reprieve from the noise and the bright pink walls and the waves of people. As much as she’d liked it inside, she liked it out here too, the evening alive with lights from windows and neon signs, each lit corner shining from the pockets of darkness that were shut-down stores. Despite the way they’d shouted to be heard moments earlier, they were quieter out here, where every word could carry perfectly.

They walked farther and farther, closer and closer together. Sansa was tipsy again, eager for her next drink. On one dark street, she declared her feet healed, and Sandor passed her the shopping bag he’d been carrying so she could swap out her new flats for her strappy heels. She gripped Sandor’s arm as she picked each foot up, and the solid iron of his forearm was stronger than any lamp-post she could have leaned against. In the space of one long, quiet block, the silence grew loud enough to roar in Sansa’s ears. And then it was over, and businesses glowed around them again.

And then they drank.

One bar sold only tequilas, and another was in an old laundromat. One cramped space was a hangout for local art students, and Sandor towered over everyone as he drank his beer. They stumbled in and out, whirling around corners and taking whichever turns seemed intriguing. Finally they found a little red door, with a speakeasy tucked behind it, only even spottable because of the small line outside.

Sandor gave the doorman a nod, then began a quick and friendly conversation that Sansa assumed was about the age-old job of guarding doors. The doorman laughed, and gestured at the entrance, and Sandor seemed to decline at first. He asked something, and the other man answered, and then both of them laughed. Sandor’s French was smoother drunk, the slightest slur to his words making them flow all the better.

“Pourquoi pas?” Sandor shrugged at last, and they were ushered in. Sandor and the other man gave each other those slap-grips on the shoulder that men always did, and Sansa shrugged and followed him in.

Sansa looked around once inside, scanning the room in a very different way than Sandor did. The inside of this bar _looked_ like Sandor to her, the way the first one had felt so much like hers. This place was dark and mature and sexy, all leather and low candlelight gleaming off low bronze tables, secret shadows on every battered brick wall. She was properly drunk now, at the height of the giddy recklessness that felt like a sugar rush under her skin. When she caught up to Sandor at the bar, he handed her something golden and nearly glowing, and she sipped it slow, tasting pineapple and smoke.

“I hope it’s up to your standards,” Sandor teased, and she smiled when she realized that she could hear him well enough to detect his playful tone.

“My standards are high for a reason,” she said primly, making him shout with laughter.

“Sorry, I just— they must have _just_ shot up.”

She knew what he meant, and rolled her eyes at the oblique reference to Joffrey. “They did.” No more would she settle for stupid, hurtful boys. Not when there were men out there — _men_ , like Sandor, who had perched on a stool to be the same height as her, whose thighs strained his pants at the vee of his legs, where she longed to press in closer.

Sansa was solidly drunk now, she could tell, and the hours until she had to be in bed were ticking down fast. Any minute now her energy level would crash into the floor, and the current of electricity running through her would stutter out.

The only thing left to do was take advantage of the spark she had left.

The music seeped through the walls, with the slow buzz of bass and a solid beat of sound that padded the world around them like liquor and sweat. Sansa tilted her head, tossed her hair a little, and found its beat. She swayed by accident, catching herself up against the hard press of Sandor’s knee.

“Easy there,” he murmured, catching her about the waist and then taking her hands, holding her steady in front of him.

She tugged his hands. “Easy _here_.” He grinned, as though to himself, and finished his drink before following her up, towering over her once again as she pulled him to the corner. 

“You’re drunk,” he murmured, his hand covering the small of her back. “I’ve seen you dance better than this.”

“You’re drunk, too,” she answered, delighted to see it in the flush across his throat, hidden beneath the shadow of stubble. “And I didn’t know you were watching,” 

He shrugged and dipped her, totally at odds with the grinding beat of the song. She shrieked and held on, forgetting to wait for an answer in the rush of defying gravity.

The song changed, slowed. They were still dancing, liquor-scented, in the corner. The heat of Sandor’s hands burned through her. She wanted to say something light and flirty, something buoyant and clever. 

“Thanks for telling me all that stuff about you,” she blurted out instead. “I wish I’d paid you more attention.”

For a moment it didn’t seem like he would say anything. Then, “I don’t wish I’d paid you less.”

His forehead was heavy, his eyes so serious, deep grey without enough light to unveil the bright sea of silver inside. She’d never been in the grip of a man like this, never been made to feel so breathless and jealous and disconcerted in turns. Her standards had changed, and they were in the shape of broad shoulders now, of a beard that no stupid young boy could grow. It was hard to believe that he’d ever learned to take her seriously.

It was thrilling to realize that, in a city filled with new and beautiful people, he was dancing with her.

The next song was fast, and Sandor relaxed his hold on her, letting Sansa step back. Her head was clearing a little, reminding her of just how long of a day it had been. It had gone by fast, in a haze of happiness, but no change of shoes could help her feet forget the miles they’d walked at this point, and she knew just one more drink would be a mistake she’d feel in the morning.

“Ready for bed?” he asked, reading her face, and her eyes snapped to his before she understood what he was asking.

“I’m ready,” she said, refusing to blush. “Let’s go back.”

They went back. This taxi ride was shorter, quieter. They rumbled through quiet streets in the dark, leaning against each other in the center of their own tired world.

Sandor was humming. She thought it might be the song from the last bar, but he was being too quiet to hear properly. She could only feel it, buzzing under her cheek through his shoulder.

Sansa yawned and tried to make sense of the game on the radio. She could tell it was a game, at least, but the low, excited chatter of the announcers could have been about anything. Lights twinkled into faded stars from her tilted view of the window, too fast to see any one on its own.

Sandor directed the driver, paid despite her efforts to beat him to it, and offered her his arm on the way out. They’d been dropped off on the corner, and their hotel gleamed like a white ship in the darkness.

The taxi drove away, and they were left alone in the night. It was colder now, and Sansa rubbed her hands together, but felt reluctant to go in. Any minute now she’d be back in the bed they’d breakfasted in, a whole day with Sandor over what felt like far too soon. But here, for one second more, they were still together. The light from the hotel glowed over the scarred side of his face. It was a ruin of silver in the dark, but then again, so were his eyes.

“Why do you call me little bird?” she asked, wanting to delay him with her for just another minute.

Sandor finished tucking his wallet away and studied her. He was close again, giving off more warmth than anything else on the street, and she could still feel the ghost of his touch on her back, the memory of fingertips splayed across her ribs.

He still didn’t want to tell her; she could tell. But the drinks and the day had relaxed him, it seemed, because he turned the lean of his body away from the hotel entrance and toward her entirely. He reached for her hair, thought better of it, dropped his hand.

“It’s what I’ve always called you. In my head, at least. I don’t know how it started, I—I saw a bird once, I guess, and it reminded me of you. I don’t know what type of bird, or where I was. I don’t remember if I saw it singing, or caged, or flying, but everything they do reminds me of you, now, and vice versa.” He misread the awestruck expression on her face and shrugged. “It’s stupid, it’s just, you see a little bird and they’re so delicate, and capable of this beautiful, inhuman freedom—”

Sansa tugged the sides of Sandor’s flannel, lifted up onto her toes, and kissed him.

His response was immediate and overwhelming. She was wrapped up again, up and up into the arms that had spun her. Now they were bearing her up, pulling her overwhelmingly into a crush of whiskey flavor and the spice of clean sweat. He met her kiss, tilted it, cupped the back of her head to find the right angle to meet her opening mouth. She was still clutching his shirt, her knuckles brushing against his sweater and her body swaying backwards in an echo of their earlier embrace.

They only broke off once the breaths within their kiss grew short and gasping. Sansa had a wild thought that she was falling, but it was just Sandor, lowering her feet to the ground. They stared at each other, a live wire between them that Sansa had no idea how to handle safely.

She shook her head, touched her swollen lower lip, checked to see that she remained whole in the wake of a kiss that felt earth-shaking. “I-I’m—” 

He released her, and the night got colder. “Don’t say you’re sorry—”

“And I’m drunk—”

“Sansa—” His hands opened and closed. A group left a bar across the street, shrieking and grabbing each other. It was late, and they were both drunk, and Sansa had never kissed anyone first in her entire life.

“Goodnight,” she said abruptly, exhausted and confused and terrified that she’d just made a fool out of herself. He’d kissed her back, but he seemed to take girls home plenty, and she didn’t want to be another one of his one-night stands. Except some small hidden part of her did, and that scared her. Better to just—

She slipped back inside, the lights of the lobby too-bright, and ignored her reflection in the elevator.


	16. Chapter 16

Sansa had fallen asleep immediately, her last conscious thought to hope that the end of her night would be forgotten in alcohol-soaked dreams. 

No such luck.

She’d woken up in a jumble of coat and bag and shoes, and she opened her eyes long enough to order room service, only waking up when there was a knock at the door. Sansa pulled a robe over her half-discarded outfit, peered outside, and frowned. There was a tray with coffee and chia pudding, as she’d ordered, but there was also a bag with the shoes that Sandor had been carrying. He must have dropped them off, and the thought of him outside her door made her feel prickly and hot all over.

Sansa groaned and brought everything inside. Eating in bed seemed impossible after yesterday, with the memory of Sandor across from her too recent and real. She drew a bath instead and spent another hour inside of it, eating in small bites from the bowl she balanced on her knees.

Slowly, the aftereffects of the alcohol still sloshing around inside of her abated. She was pink and wrinkly and tired still, and her bed looked tempting again once she’d toweled off.

It felt like every potential thought she could have about the day before had been jumbled up into one enormous pile in the center of her brain. Picking through it was scary, and unappealing, but utterly necessary to clear any sort of space again.

So Sansa pulled on leggings and a bralette, checked her phone, and found a yoga class.

Somewhere in the burn of a long, precarious stretch, Sansa always found some peace. So now, on a morning she’d planned to spend shopping for gifts, she was relieved to spend her morning sweating out a night full of questionable decisions.

At first keeping up with the instructor took up the majority of her focus. She’d found a small studio nearby that seemed to be made out of window panes and white wood, with deep purple yoga mats and trailing green house plants hanging from every corner. The instructor, a pregnant woman who gestured with fluttering hands what her belly kept her from demonstrating, walked the small class through poses primarily in French. She would repeat herself in English when Sansa, who’d been given away as a visitor upon signing up for the class, didn’t immediately follow the pace of the group. It was challenging, but it felt amazing, and Sansa flowed through her vinyasa and into a more peaceful place.

She thanked the teacher after class and picked up a small water for the walk back. She was thinking of how she ought to start traveling with her own water bottle, and then she was thinking of how her head felt better, and then she was thinking of how her head had hurt because she’d had six drinks and thrown herself at Sandor.

Perhaps _thrown herself_ wasn’t quite fair, because he had kissed her back. He had told her he thought she was a delicate, beautiful thing, and he’d dipped her, and brought her notebook back, and been there every step of the best week of her life.

And she was a day away from leaving.

She’d had a moment, the night before, when she hadn’t cared whether Sandor would simply collect her like so many front desk girls. When she’d wanted to taste more, touch more, rock against him away from the eyes of a dance floor. He had said that he didn’t necessarily want those singular nights. He had dropped all of his sarcasm, in kissing her back, and she wanted— she wanted.

_What spring does with the cherry trees._

She’d come to Paris to be alone. Was it bad, that it was better together? She just hadn’t known what it could be like, the way her imagination pushed her to hope for now. For every day to have a slice of yesterday, with laughter and adventure and breakfast in bed. 

She had two more days. She wanted to spend them with him. Whatever he was willing to offer, if he didn’t regret kissing her back in the light of the morning. One night. A few more days. More, if he wanted it, because she suddenly wanted an infinite serving of Sandor, and it was only scary or crazy in as much as it didn’t feel scary or crazy at all. 

Sansa tried to imagine herself telling Margaery, or her sister, or anyone at all back home about what she felt. It was so exciting and big that she almost wanted to share, but it made for a small delicious secret inside of her, too. This, him...it was all for her.

She hoped.

She would just have to tell him, then, there was nothing for it. Sansa wasn’t used to being bold, but there was simply no time to waste being nervous. Being with Sandor, she knew she could tease him, and be honest, open like she never was at work or with her wonderful but high-strung friends.

First she tried his hotel door. Her heart pounded, then slowed, with no response. Next she checked the lobby and restaurant, lingering for a moment to see if he’d come back from a run or picking up a newspaper. She realized that she’d already memorized his morning habits at the same time she realized that she was still wearing her yoga clothes, and reluctantly left him a note before going up to shower and change.

Sansa didn’t quite know what the day would bring, so she put on high-top sneakers and a comfortable vintage cardigan, using comfort to contrast her favorite short, simple polka-dotted dress.

She’d tell him later. Until then… well, she finally felt inspired.

A half-hour later Sansa was eating a sandwich in the Champ de Mars. The gardens were blessedly sunny, and from her bench she had the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. As far as killing time went, she didn’t think she could do any better than this.

And for the next few hours, Sansa drew.

She drew the people passing by and she drew the tower in front of her. She drew the best details of the dresses she’d seen at the fashion show days earlier, and she imagined more, inspired by a wedding dress and a carousel and a bar made out of books. 

The day disappeared. Sansa only stopped when her wrist was sore and her stomach was growling again and the late afternoon sun started elongating the shadows around her.

Sansa put her things away and stretched. She ought to go back — see if Sandor was there. But there was one thing on her list that could be checked off right now, before she did.

The line for the Eiffel Tower wasn’t as bad as the Louvre had been, although she missed Sandor with every shuffle toward. 

There was an elevator that led up to the top, but almost 700 stairs to the first platform, and she wanted to be able to say she’d walked them. Even though her yoga class had left her legs sore already, she knew that she could reach the top. The few steps were easy, even, and the view got better with every foot she climbed.

Eventually it didn’t feel so good anymore, but Sansa pressed on. She knew she could do this. She felt like she could do anything if she could do this — even be happy, even be brave.

Two hundred stairs. Three.

Onward and on. She could do this. All the wasted time, all the holding back — the job she hated and the ex-boyfriend who’d never cared about her — she could leave all of it behind, and it would all be worth it for the view from the top.

It took almost half an hour, and she stopped to breathe before getting a ride the rest of the way up. The park where she’d spent her day filled her vision, green with spring and buzzing with happy people. The sun was setting, and if she hadn’t been out of breath already, the view would have done the trick. Below the world was green and gold, and Sansa felt like she was on the top of the world, and not just literally. The river was a strip of light, the avenues like silver veins. 

It was wonderful, beautiful – everything that she could hope for when she’d decided to come to France. But she had learned just how much more to hope for since then, and looking out on the wide streets of Paris, Sansa wished for one more thing. 

“Sansa.”

It was like a bolt of lightning in the center of her back. There were plenty of others on the busy plattform, families and couples and groups of exhausted tourists. But she heard his voice so clearly. It was the center of the world.

Sansa turned around, and there he was. The elevator door was sliding shut behind him, people streaming to either side of him to get around. He had stopped where he stood, one foot out the door, and as she watched him take the steps that separated them.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. He was real, he was here, and he didn’t spare a second to look at anything but her.

“I have to tell you something,” she said immediately, using the last of her rush from climbing the stairs to cling to her resolution. It was a new day, the memory of his kiss alive with him in front of her, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him that she was no longer afraid.

“Me first,” he said, serious. “If you don’t mind.”

“Did you actually follow me this time?” she joked, wanting already to lighten the worry on his face. He was wearing a soft-looking shearling jacket, and it looked like it would be heavy if he peeled it off, like it would be satisfying as it hit the floor.

A smile crashed through his expression, but then his solemnity returned, his scars pulling straight. “I got your note. When I couldn't find you in the park, I.. I just had a feeling.”

“I guess we were just meant to keep running into each other.” 

He bit his lip at that, and searched her eyes. Whatever he saw there emboldened him, and he relaxed, just a touch. “Have you been to the top yet?”

She held onto her strength and held out her hand. “I was waiting for you.”

Hand in hand, they stepped back into the elevator. It pulled them inescapably upward, to the top of the sunset and the beginning of night. The sky was dark now, every light alive and tiny below them. They were quiet on the ride up, and Sansa could feel each second like it was a yearlong jolt of electricity.

Sansa pulled Sandor to the furthest corner of the plattform, where they had a small but perfect cushion of space outside of a tiny champagne bar that glowed neon, lining his face in red. She had dropped his hand to press herself against the railing, momentarily taken aback by taking it all in. He waited next to her, steady and strong.

He started talking like that, both of them looking out onto the endless parade of Paris, Sandor sheltered by the dark and the distance and the side of his face that he offered her.

“I should be honest,” he said, and the self-loathing in his voice made her ache for him, made her want to touch him. But she held onto the railing, not wanting to interrupt, and let him speak. “I shouldn’t have— last night, I said don’t be sorry. But I’m sorry, for letting anything— I’m not making any sense.” He cleared his throat. “What I’m saying is I owe you honesty, if there’s ever going to be— I think you should have had all the facts, before you kissed me.”

Warm at the mention of her bravest moment, Sansa turned toward him, just a smidge. “What facts?”

He glanced down, then as their eyes caught, he kept the contact, his face grim and dear. “I’ve wanted you for a long time now.” Sansa tried not to let the shock show on her face, but he caught it anyway. “I know, I never—I never put it on the line or even talked to you, but you were the best part of a shit job and even though didn’t want to risk the job or hit on my boss’ girlfriend, I probably would have left a long time ago if it weren’t for you. I spent the last year sticking around to keep an eye on you with that stupid kid, just in case you needed me.”

“I didn’t know,” Sansa whispered. Looking back, she could see how he’d cared for her, despite every gruff word or long silence. Maybe she ought to have known. 

“Of course not,” he agreed, and in the darkness she almost thought he was blushing. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of— it was my little secret. But I believed it was just some crush, and I’d move on, but I didn’t. And then I was fired, or quit, or whatever, and I wasn’t going to think about you anymore.”

“You lost your job because of me,” she supplied sadly. But he shook his head.

“Joffrey is the one to blame, and we’re better off without him. But that’s why I came here. To forget you.”

Her heart clenched in sympathy and pain. “And then there I was.”

“And then there you were,” he agreed, both of them remembering their initial chance encounter that now felt like an age ago, the squabbles in line, and then the hours of flight that had locked them together. “We can just leave it here, if you want. Forget about last night. You can take what I told you, and leave it on the Eiffel Tower, and I’ll never bother you again. I understand if this was just some mistake for you, so we can just go home and… forget.” He took a deep, shaky breath, and faced her. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”

A whirlwind had grown in Sansa’s chest as he spoke, and it wiped out the last of her fear. She was crying, she thought, her eyes blurred so that Sandor took up her entire line of vision and the lights of the city smudged into stars. 

Sandor wasn’t wearing a flannel this time, but she tugged on his coat like she had last night, and he crushed her to him with a broken sound. This time she kissed him more carefully, discovering the exact shape of his smile in her mouth. She hadn’t noticed, as buzzingly tipsy as she had been before, the way the corner of his lip was a firm press of scar tissue. She liked it— knowing the kiss could only be his.

His arms slid around her, and suddenly she was home. Here, in the middle of his arms at the center of the Eiffel Tower in the beating heart of Paris, she felt like she’d found more than herself: she’d found Sandor, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's not over! One more (epilogue) chapter to go, I still have to live up to this explicit rating. Love you all, please stay safe and healthy!
> 
> See the fashion on Tumblr [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/613267008167067648/well-always-have-paris-chapter-16-fashion) and come talk to me anytime!


	17. Chapter 17

ONE YEAR LATER

“I can’t believe we didn’t sleep together that night,” Sansa marveled, albeit in hushed tones, because the Eiffel Tower’s observation deck was bustling with people in the sunshine.

Sandor smirked at her over his champagne. He liked it when she spoke more coarsely, clearly reveling in the impact he’d had on her in the last year. She liked it, too, if only for the way he looked at her when she did. “Made up for it the next day, though.”

“Mm,” she agreed, and they clinked their glasses together. “And the day after that.”

Sansa had no regret about all of the sight-seeing she’d missed, having spent the last day and change of her trip in her hotel bed — and bath — and shower. And, yes, at some point in the middle of the night, up against the window.

What could she say? They’d been inspired. Sandor had checked out of his room and into hers, moved his flight to match, and they’d hardly left each other’s sides since. And here, on the celebration of their first anniversary, it was time to look back, celebrate, and start looking forward.

“Do you remember that night, finding me up here?” she mused, twirling her finger around her glass. She was dressed simply that day, in a black cami and floral slip skirt. She was wearing leather boots he had given her for her birthday, and he had been amused that morning to see her pairing them with daisies.

“Of course I do,” he shot back, offended. “Are you kidding? I’m the best boyfriend in the world.”

“Who told you that?” she teased, even if it was true. “No, I was just thinking about something.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m just over here wondering how I took the stairs and you didn’t. Pretty unimpressive, if you ask me.” 

Sandor groaned and nearly sloshed her with champagne in the attempt to put her in a headlock. She shrieked and wiggled away, turning the heads of tourists for the second they struggled, his hand sliding down her back as he set her free.

They played constantly, their back-and-forth a source of inside jokes and entertainment that made Sansa appreciate his sparkling wit every day, and delight in matching him back. She’d never been able to tease Joffrey this way— and that was just the start of the ways Sandor was better. She’d never known what it could be like to be so cherished, so devoured. She’d been amazed by the things she found herself capable of in the last year, and her family and friends had grown to love Sandor for the Sansa she became alongside him. And Sandor, for his part, had warmed and relaxed. He’d become the vacation version of himself all the time, with no awful little tyrant to answer to, with his growing faith that Sansa was staying by his side. They’d supported each other through the best year of her life, and now they were supporting each other through a whole new journey.

“Should you be drinking before your job interview, anyway?” She checked the time by pulling his wrist closer: he had three hours, so one glass of champagne was probably fine, but she plucked his glass away and finished it for him, anyhow.

Sandor grumbled, but he looped his arm around her, and took her empty glass with his newly-free hand. “It’s just to sign the paperwork, little bird. They’ll hardly take it back now, after so many interviews.”

“Just being safe.” Sandor wouldn’t admit it, but she could tell he was excited... and not a little bit nervous. He’d taken a yearlong contract as a security specialist, but he’d recently been recommended to the head securities team for a Paris fashion house — which meant worldwide events, international employees, and offices across the globe. If all went well, they would spend a few months in Paris as he learned the job, and then they’d have their pick of cities. It was all very exciting, but secretly, Sansa was hoping they’d find Paris to their long-term liking. Ever since she had given her notice at Haute Highgarden, she’d been able to focus all of her energy on fashion illustration, and there could be no better city to take classes and stay inspired. She’d been providing illustrations for Margaery, who had been spending her grandmother’s money lately on a small line of her own. Margaery wouldn’t run out of money for a long time, so Sansa’s portfolio was flourishing.

He dropped her off at their hotel – they’d checked into the same one, for old time’s sake, although their room was bigger this time around. She wasted no time in wiggling into her favorite nightgown — either he’d want to celebrate, or he’d need some consolation.

She lit her favorite candles — just purchased from the boutique down the street — and settled in on the balcony to draw, her robe drawn warm and fluffy around her as she let the street sounds and natural light guide her hand. She’d put some music on, and didn’t hear the hotel door open before Sandor was leaning over her, a suited figure framed in the delicate doorway.

He cut a mouth-watering figure: she’d fastened his hair back for him that morning, and he’d shaved his beard down to a short, even buzz. The suit exaggerated the already-exaggerated slant from his chest to his hips, the neat turn-in that she knew was all sharp-cut olive-skinned muscle underneath. She’d wanted him to wear a statement shirt, but he’d insisted on a crisp white button-down, and seeing a modest glimpse of his throat between the topmost buttons made her heartbeat quicken. Somehow he always knew just what to wear on his own, his classic taste at odds with the unusual look of his scars.

“Did it all work out?” She tilted her head back, and he leaned down to brush a kiss, upside-down, against her mouth.

“Mm.” He rolled the thin silk strap of her nightgown between two fingers, then slipped it off her shoulder. “Mm-hmm.”

Sansa didn’t hide her grin when she stood and turned to face him. He drew her into him, and she stumbled happily up to the wall of his chest. “Congratulations, Mr. Clegane.”

“That’s gonna just be ‘Sir’ to my employees,” he warned, and she stuck her tongue out.

“Well, I’m not your employee, am I?”

“I’ll put you to work anyway,” he teased, gripping her tight, sliding his palms down to hold her with two handfuls of her ass. She toyed with the buttons on his shirt, waiting to see if he’d stop her when she undid the first one.

He just leaned back against the doorframe, and she leaned into him entirely, her body swayed into his like a flower in an irresistible wind.

Sandor still held her like something precious, something that might escape his grip the moment he loosened it. She hoped that never changed, although she knew she wasn’t going anywhere. Life was better with Sandor, and she thought his life was better with her. He smiled more, laughed every day, delighted in finding all the places she was soft and ticklish.

“Tell me everything,” she cooed, though she was more focused on the chest hair she was uncovering under each consecutive button. She was up to three — any more and he’d stop her… or he wouldn’t.

“How about later?” he murmured back, and hauled her up into his arms so quickly that she had no choice but to wrap her legs around his waist, squeaking. He walked her inside, shutting the door behind him, and then walked her to the bed, holding her beside it before he lowered her down. “Will your sketchbook and stuff be okay out there?”

“Better than I’ll be if you don’t put me down right now,” she warned, and he laughed warmly, then kissed her again.

This kiss was softer, slower, more gentle — his arms around her, gravity a memory. It built and swelled and grew, until she could feel the world tilt and shift and her shoulders were lowered onto the mattress below, her hair brushing the pillows first before she was laid out underneath him. The bed groaned as Sandor climbed over her, his enormous frame blocking out the lights above. He propped himself up and kept kissing her, and Sansa stretched her legs out before tangling them with his, returning each kiss with small hums and soft smiles.

They could get lost in this, she knew. They spent hours sometimes, just laying down and finding all the ways they could fit against each others’ bodies, laughing and letting the television autoplay while they splayed across each other, kissing and curling together. He liked to balance her on his chest, or scoop her against his side, and she liked to fasten herself to him like a limpet. 

Her stomach growled, and he laughed, drawing off of her long enough to give her a chance to escape. “Did you want to go have dinner?”

“Of course, but what’s the rush? We may as well show up hungry.” She wriggled out of the robe and turned into her side, and the two of them faced one another, his hand going automatically to the dip in the side of her waist. He didn’t need to look now: he knew every curve of her.

“Then allow me to help you build an appetite,” he suggested.

Sex with Sandor had gone from a fevered, magnetic thing to an exploratory, playful one — Sandor delighting in the companionship and closeness that only partners could achieve, Sansa learning more and more that the things she thought she wanted were just the tip of the iceberg.

He could spend hours teasing her, tasting and testing her, setting her squirming until she did some very out-of-character begging and even more out-of-character demanding. Now he slid his hand up her thigh, rucking the lace and silk she wore up to expose her hip and the gusset of her panties. He drew the backs of his knuckles along the seam there, and she sighed, twitched, got comfortable. He dragged his thumb up to her clit and rubbed, slowly, his lips breaking away from hers to mouth at her nipples through silk, her nightgown dampening as his breath made the slippery fabric go from hot to cool against her skin.

Sansa made a noise, then reached for him, her hands tumbling down through the buttons that slipped loose between her fingers. Underneath she could skid her fingertips against the hard muscle of him, the unburnt expanse of hair and strength and the tattoos she’d discovered over the last months, a world full of languages and images mapped over his torso — ships, swords, wild-eyed heads of horses.

She knew what to do now, how to loose his pants button, how to slip her hand inside the cling of his black boxer briefs. There would be dry cleaning to do in the morning, but for now there was nothing more important than the heft of his dick in the clutch of her palm, in the satisfaction of his altered breathing. She grinned against his hair, and he caught her mouth again, swallowing the smile with his seeking. His fingers wiggled the elastic of her panties away, so she was arching until their bodies tangled, her wrist pinned but moving, his fingers curling into the place where she wanted him most.

Sandor’s fingers were wide and swift and careful, pulling her apart into little pieces with every push and pull of them. She had clamped her knees shut on instinct, but he was stronger, and knew exactly what she needed. Or at least what she needed for now, because it didn’t take long at all for Sansa to feel hopelessly greedy for more.

“More,” she murmured, and he bit down carefully on her lip as he pulled his fingers free. She released him and panted up at him, waiting for her heart to stop spinning. It never would — he smirked slow, and drew up his fingers, and sucked them clean as he shifted back to grip her hip with his free hand, pulling her down flat as though she weighed nothing at all. 

Sansa thought nothing of drawing her knees back these days, letting him pull her panties off of one foot as he moved into the space she’d made for him. He drew the pad of his thumb against her, weighing her wetness against the stretch of his dick to come. Over her, his body reared up high enough to block the ceiling lights, up and up and on into something raw and powerful and utterly perfect. He ran his hands up her sides, helped her pull her nightgown off, and shed the shirt that had folded back so it barely covered his shoulders. His dick was jutting out of his expensive trousers, flushed and frightfully solid. His hand fell to it, and she bit her lip, wanting a taste.

He seemed to have a similar idea, though, and he moved fast. Before she knew it he had stepped back to kneel at the foot of the bed, drawing her down by her hips so she slid, giggling, down against his mouth. He held her hips down with a heavy forearm, and the noise she made then should have been embarrassing – but with Sandor, it wasn’t.

“We’re supposed to be celebrating _you_ ,”� she joked breathlessly, twisting and turning under his administrations — he’d been right to pin her hips, and he grinned wickedly against her in response.

“But this is my reward,” he said mildly, following his innocent words with a devilish lick that smeared saliva through his beard and sent her beyond the use of words at all.

Sansa was seconds away from coming by the time he stopped, panting, her chest flushed pink and pounding fast. She whined as he pulled away, her face going pink too when she heard the needy sound escape her lips. “Sandor!”

“I know, love.” He slid out from between her thighs and stood, bringing them with him with a hand on each leg, propping them against his shoulders and running his hands down. Sansa admired the sight it made — her calves pale against his chest, his wet grin between her ankles. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

Sansa covered her blushing face, then peeled her hands away to grin back at him. “When?”

He laughed out loud, and she giggled along with him, and then she felt him shift his weight and press forward, driving home hard with a jolt hard enough to make her squeal. “Greedy,” he admonished her, though it came out as more of a groan, and he stilled once he was flush against her hips, letting her adapt as he found his self-control. He cleared his throat, a long rumble that she could feel against the backs of her thighs. He’d prepared her as best he could, but it was still an adjustment each time, the fit so snug that it seemed impossible.

“You okay?” he turned his head, pressed a kiss to her ankle.

She nodded: she was okay, she was perfect, basking in the stretch and the fullness that was more than physical: it was the two of them together, the perfect match.

She felt like she’d die if he didn’t move soon, and then he moved and she felt like _that_ would be what killed her. It was too much, too good, and he was more stirred up than she’d realized, past constraint already. His hips snapped back and forward hard, so in just seconds she was bracing and he was gripping her and Sansa was being well and truly _fucked_ so hard that it was all she could do to hold on. She clutched the sheets, her legs trembling even though he had her thighs gripped tight. His nails were never long, but they dug in anyway, and the brutal impact of their bodies made her close her eyes — open them — screw them shut.

“Sansa.” He caught a firm rhythm, slowing and pumping in the most delicious way, the way that made her mouth water and her vision blur. “Darling, look at me.” 

She bit her lip on a grin and opened her eyes: he was smiling back, the tenderness in his eyes at odds with the compounding of their bodies. She did love to look at him: loved the pride in his eyes for her, loved to show him how gorgeous she thought he was to look at, scars and all.

“Good girl,” he grinned, and lowered her legs down. They ached for a moment, and then she wrapped them around him, and then he was leaning down down down to kiss her. The angle shifted and his hand slipped between them and she couldn’t help but close her eyes again, gasping into Sandor’s kiss as she came. 

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, and then she couldn’t speak. Sandor chuckled at her language, and then gripped her hip and wriggled her down and she gasped again, the sparks inside her going on and on — and then it was Sandor’s turn, his grip becoming nearly painful, but his heat inside of her soothing every unperfect thing in the world.

When he finally let go, when they’d lingered over kisses and then reached for robes, they curled back up, piled atop each other in the enormous bed.

“Mm,” she tried,” and he laughed out loud. “Hey!”

“Mm,” he mocked, but gently, clearly agreeing with her. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She smiled as he smacked a kiss onto her forehead, and flopped out, turning into dead weight in his arms. He pretended to drop her, and she shrieked, but all she could do was sink further into the pillows. “Let go of me, you big moose.”

“Never,” he declared, and clutched her back to his chest. “Don’t fall asleep, we’re celebrating.”

“We just celebrated,” she pointed out, but stretched anyway. “Okay, want to shower?”

“Definitely not.” He ruffled her hair: it had gone big and loose, tangled by his fingers in a way that somehow looked deliberate. “You look gorgeous, and I’m starving. Come be my dinner date.”

“How could I refuse?” They dressed more casually — Sansa pulling on a soft sweater with lightweight trousers and slipping into slides, Sandor grabbing jeans and a worn sweatshirt, elevated by his favorite black peacoat. 

It was dark outside already — Sansa had lost track of the time, in drawing, in getting lost in Sandor. As they slipped through the streets hand in hand, she found that she was starving.

“Are you ready to watch me eat my weight in bread?” she asked, only half-joking, and he gave her hand a slow squeeze. The cafés were still open, still studded with people in twos and threes. They were smoking cigarettes and drinking wine by the bottle, and Sansa couldn’t wait to be among them.

She had wanted to revisit their previous haunts, to recreate the meals and the moments that had come to mean so much in the months since. But Sandor had something else in mind.

“Don’t we need a reservation?” she asked him, clutching his arm wide-eyed as they approached the door at Shabour, but he just rolled his eyes and pressed on her lower back to guide her in.

They sat at a pink marble counter around the open kitchen, and Sansa proposed a toast once they were surrounded with plates of French-Israeli food — wagyu beef with freekeh, eggplant caramel, and girolles mushrooms, eggs marinated in tea with tahini, salmon eggs and horseradish cream, a dessert of malabi milk pudding, with figs and fresh raspberries.

“I’m so proud of you,” she told him, her glass of sparkling wine held high until he clinked his against it quickly, embarrassed but pleased. “This is huge, and no one deserves it more.”

“It wouldn’t mean anything if you weren’t coming with me.” They were sitting on stools, and he reached out to spin her, bringing her knees bumping into his so he could trap her close witth his legs. “Thank you.”

All she could do was smile, or she might cry — and while she didn’t mind embarrassing him in public, the moment felt too loaded, too special. His eyes on hers were as warm and heavy as his hand on her leg, and she caught her breath in her throat, trying not to give away the pounding of her heart. His hand twitched on her knee, and for one wild instant she wanted to glance at his coat pocket, to search for the bump of a small box.

His hand stilled, and she glanced away fast. Where had that idea come from? Sure, her parents had raised their eyebrows when she’d announced her plans to follow Sandor to another country, Catelyn arranging a double date in which she and Ned had divided the two of them for loving interrogations. And true enough, she’d assured her mother that things were serious, that she was _sure_ about Sandor. And when Sandor had come back from his conversation with Ned, his smirk at her had made her trust that it was mutual. Ned was too logical to protest at Sandor taking his daughter away if he knew there was no good in protesting — and if he didn’t approve, Sandor wouldn’t have come back smiling. Now she realized that she'd already decided she was ready for their future, all those months back, whatever that future held.

But there was no rush, she reminded herself, dismissing her surprising surge of disappointment as he released her so they could eat. They’d known each other a long time – but not really. And they’d only been dating for a year — the best year, a year that felt solidly like the first year of the future. There was no rush, and nothing to be upset about — dinner was perfect, and sex and wine had loosened her limbs, and Sandor fed her the best bites of dessert with his arm around her shoulders.

It wasn’t until the morning, when they’d built a fort of blankets and pillows and sunken into it until the sun found them, that it happened. She opened her eyes to see his, already on her, grey and steady like a blanketing rain. The window had let sunshine into the room in thick swathes, one column warming her face, another striping his enormous shoulder where it emerged from the comforter.

Sansa smiled sleepily, and he smiled back, and he kissed the back of the hand that she raised to cover up her morning breath. ”Good morning,” she breathed, and sat up — her robe had been left crumbled on the floor, and she stood up and stretched in the nude, reaching for it slowly once she knew he was looking.

She glanced back at him with a grin, expecting a wolf whistle of some kind, but his face was soft — gentle in a way that made her tingle, suddenly, made her ache with love.

“Will you marry me?” he said, instead of _good morning_ , and she dropped the robe again.

“What?” The Eiffel Tower, their perfect dinner — she’d thought maybe yesterday — and then she’d talked herself out of expecting it, but now—and “I’m naked,” she said, dumbfounded, and he laughed and laughed.

“I’m sorry, I was going to ask you later today, but I just—” he gestured at her and sat up, the blankets falling into his lap, Sandor just as bare and exposed as she was. The morning light turned his skin gold, and his hair had come loose, so that it lapped at his shoulders as he reached out for her. She took his hands, then his shoulders, and he settled his hands on her hips as he looked up at her. She kissed his forehead, then his nose, and pulled away to meet his warm, open smile. “I couldn’t wait.”

“What’s later?” she asked, suspicious, her mind buzzing too much to even give him her answer. “I thought we were going shopping.”

“Mm, no, I planned a surprise.” He skimmed his fingertips up and down her sides, then pressed his forehead between her breasts and breathed in. “I was supposed to wait for later.”

“Ask me later, then,” she teased. His huffed breath of laughter ticked her skin — and then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and they stayed like that, pressed together, until the sun began to slide over them and it was time to get dressed for the day.

Later, they sat in a vintage car on the side of a green-banked road. Sandor had run out to pick it up as she showered, and she’d come downstairs to find him holding two travel coffees and a bag of beignets. She’d taken extra care with her hair, setting it into gentle waves that whorled around her shoulders, framing the lace of her little white dress. And off they’d gone, out through the city and out through the towns, the fields, the signs and traffic disappearing as though they were moving backwards in time.

Sandor’s hands were steady on the wheel of the old beige Citroën, following the looping freeways. She pointed things out as they passed, and he changed the radio until it played the French pop that she had just begun learning to understand — Sandor quizzing her sometimes, until she read the road signs aloud unprompted. The engine of the car was like a friendly animal, the breeze she rolled down the window to invite in clean and warm. 

They pulled off when they got hungry, and followed signs to a small town studding the land around a castle. They were winding down a valley that opened up on green hillsides, ancient brick buildings, thatched rooftops that could be a thousand years old. The castle was squat and small, but they could see the promise of people, of lunch and a bit of adventure. 

Sandor stopped the car on the curve of one green hill, the view beneath them stretched out pretty like a picture. She leaned in to kiss him before he could say anything, and he accepted the interruption wholeheartedly. Every moment so far with Sandor had felt like a dream, but nothing so sweet as this – the heart-fluttering anticipation, the crystal-clear surety. She could feel him shift this time, one hand on her cheek, the other going to his pocket just the way she had thought she was imagining the night before. She drew back, letting him fumble the box out, and thought that _whatever the future held, it was sure to be perfect_.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I hope that this fic can be something fluffy and fun in stressful times — love and silliness is important now more than ever. I am so grateful to have real live people reading my stories: your comments and bookmarks mean the world to me.
> 
> Fashion from this chapter is [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/614165798563528704/fashion-from-chapter-17-the-final-chapter-of).  
> A Tumblr post of this fic to share is [here](https://sayesayes.tumblr.com/post/614167280482451456/well-always-have-paris-all-sansa-wants-to-do-is).
> 
> Please come talk Sansan to me anytime!


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